


Silver for Monsters

by neenwrites



Category: Fairy Tail, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crossover, F/M, Mages, Magic, Monsters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2018-11-22 15:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11382627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neenwrites/pseuds/neenwrites
Summary: In a world ravaged by monsters where magic is becoming outlawed and nonhumans are hunted, the Witcher known as Black Steel Gajeel takes up a contract.  He expects to find a simple old herbalist, terrorized by a beast in the woods.  But in his many years he has learned to never trust what he expects.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So! I have had this image in my head for a long time to do a Witcher AU for Gajevy. It just seemed to work so well in my head! The Witcher world is so huge, however, that I did worry that a lot of readers wouldn't understand all the references and their reading experience would be impacted by that. SO, I made a REALLY oversimplified key that might help give an overview of where I'm setting this:  
> Story starts in a Province called Velen. Velen is primarily swampland, often called No Man’s Land, it is filled with death and the leftovers of war. The land is embroiled in a war between the Nilfgaardians(The Black Ones) and the Redanians(Led by King Radovid). Under Radovid’s rule and in his controlled territories, non-humans and mages are hunted and burned at the stake by witch hunters, and possession of magical paraphernalia is a crime. Novigrad and Oxenfurt are the names other large cities. Witchers are technically non-human though once were. They are created, given mutations that enhance all their senses and abilities, allow them to use “signs,” give them long lives, and yellow, cat-like eyes. Their purpose and livelihoods are to hunt monsters and complete contracts for money, but do not take sides in politics. The Lodge, or Lodge of Sorceresses, was initially a secret organization of all female mages formed during the political climate that had turned against nonhumans and mages. It essentially collapsed when most of the sorceresses needed to go into hiding or were captured. All monsters named in this AU are all ones that exist in the game.

_ Good folk, _

_ It is with great urgency that I write this contract, beseeching the help of any capable.  A beast lurks in our woods, to which I believe we can attribute the disappearances of multiple citizens.  I can no longer enter the wood to gather ingredients necessary for medicine.  It threatens our lives and our livelihood.  We are in grave need of a Witcher.  To any this concerns, please seek the healer’s hut in Midcopse. _

A gloved hand pulled the paper off the noticeboard, yellow eyes scanning over the ink.  Briefly, he pulled the paper close and sniffed.   _ Lavender.  Typical. _

The tall, broad man stuffed the contract into the pouch at his side and glanced at the sky, gauging what time it was and what time he would arrive at Midcopse if he left now.  It was early morning, barring any interruptions he could be there by mid afternoon at a healthy trot.  If he was lucky, he could have a trophy, a reward, and a hot dinner before nightfall.

With that thought, he grabbed the saddle of his horse and hauled himself up into the seat.  Gajeel shook his head, tossing black strands unrestrained by a long ponytail from his face.  The sun glimmered off several metal studs cross his brow, down his nose, and on his chin, outlining hard, weathered features.  A thin scar ran from his left cheekbone down to the bottom of his jawline, but a closer look would reveal smaller scars elsewhere on his face as well. 

“Let’s go.”  A swift kick in the sides of his horse spurred the ebony beast forward, trotting down the dirt road out of the quaint, quiet village.  His last contract had been a nasty wraith that had taken some time to track down, and his sleepless bones hoped this one was a rogue bear, frightening whatever sweet, old, lavender healer that lived in Midcopse.  Or at least something simple that could be solved with steel, rather than silver.

But there was still the instinctive, purpose-driven part of the Witcher that craved the feel of his silver blade, cutting into some cataclysmic beast or ghoul.  He felt little as a Witcher, most human emotions were lost on him besides the base desires thanks to the mutations, but he felt his calling.  He lived to hunt beasts, and occasionally men if things got boring.  Most times they were one in the same. 

The afternoon’s warmth radiated from his dark, leather armor by the time he passed under the wooden arch into Midcopse.  The road had been quiet, and thankfully he had not run into anyone that would mean to slow him down.  The Nilfgaardians were only good for stalling a trip and throwing a wrench into otherwise simple tasks.  They knew who he was, nearly every soldier on both sides of the war knew Black Steel Gajeel.  No other man had ever wielded a steel blade of pure black, and fewer still knew how or where he found a smith to create the alloy.  Yet they took great joy in making everything as difficult as they like for him.  

The village looked about the same as the last time he had been there years and years ago, but they didn’t have a local healer then.  At least in that regard they had something better finally going for them in No Man’s Land.  There were little luxuries to be had in the swamps of Velen, a healer--a good one--could often be what turned the luck for a community.  

He didn’t need to ask where the old woman lived; he usually would never have to. Every healer and herbalist had nearly identical tastes in property and landscaping. The herbs and flowers growing wild on their property always were enough of an indicator, and with a shift of the breeze he picked up the scent of lavender, muddled with other floral scents.  Rose, honeysuckle, gardenia...   _ There it is. _

No one bothered him or tried to speak to him, in fact he thought he saw wary relief on the faces of many.  They knew why he was there, and they didn’t have to get close enough to see his yellow, cat-like eyes.  They only needed to see the two swords on his back to know what sort of man he was… or wasn’t.  Only one type of person carried two swords, one steel, one silver, in this day.

The scent led him to the other end of the village, finally coming to a small hut surrounded, predictably, with flowers.  He pulled his steed to a halt and swung out of the saddle, his boots hitting the earth with a heavy thud.  He took one more sniff before approaching the wooden door, noting that he would have to duck through the frame.   _ Small old woman then, _ he thought, knocking twice.

There was some shuffling inside before the door opened, and everything he had been expecting went right out the window.

The woman was tiny, nearly a head and a half shorter than him, and she was most certainly not old.  In her early twenties, most like, with a full head of wavy, brilliantly blue hair.  Honey-brown eyes started at his chest, then slowly slid up to his face, sending a foreign chill through him the second their eyes met.  

He waited for her to say something, but she was as silent as he for several moments. She squinted, taking in his gaze before flicking to the two hilts peeking over his shoulder. Those eyes suddenly went wide and her whole face lit up.  “A Witcher!” she gasped, stepping back and to the side as she quickly beckoned him inside.  “Come in, please!”

Gajeel ducked wordlessly through the entrance and took in the room around him.  Dried herbs and fruits hung from the rafters, but every wall was stacked to the roof with books.  Books everywhere, far more than he had seen in any simple healer’s collection.  This collection rivaled what he had seen in some homes in Oxenfurt.  

As the door closed behind him, he turned to face her.  “I’m here to see the healer, about the contract,” he stated, arching a brow at her.  Surely she had to be a daughter, or an apprentice.

“I am she.  I wrote the contract,” the girl declared, placing her hands on her hips.  “My name is Levy.  And you are?”

The Witcher blinked at her, looking her over from top to bottom, glanced around the room, then back to her.  She was so  _ young _ , and by all objective standards she was beautiful.  She looked more like one of the Lodge’s sorceresses than some herbalist.  “ _ You’re _ the healer?”

Levy frowned, tilting her head.  “That’s what I said.”  There was an air of offense on her tone, like she couldn’t imagine why he would be so surprised.

The contract just got a little more interesting, and at least a little easier on the eyes; that was a blessing when heading off into some new danger.  “Name’s Gajeel,” he finally responded.  

The woman blinked, looking him over again.  “ _ The _ Gajeel?” she gasped, “As in Black Steel?”

Gajeel grinned, “That’s the one.”  The pride on his voice was evident.  He relished the nickname he had earned years ago.  “‘Fraid I ain’t heard of you so I can’t extend the same surprise.”

She shook her head quickly, tossing her hair hypnotically, “You wouldn’t have.  But that’s not the point; I am fortunate to have gotten supposedly one of the best with my posting.  Now, we don’t have a lot of time.  I’ve taken notes on the clues I’ve found each time I’ve gone out, and who the disappearances were.”

_ She wastes no time, _ he thought, until he realized what else she had said.  “Wait, you’ve gone back out into the woods?  More than once?”

“Well someone had to start gathering information until a Witcher took my contract, and all the villagers are too afraid to go out anymore.  Just because I can’t go deep enough to find my best ingredients doesn’t mean I can’t go out at all.”  Levy stopped in front of the table and spread out several pieces of paper.

Gajeel hummed, before approaching her and stopping just behind to look at the scattered parchment.  Several names and descriptions were written down, but there were some sketches as well.  What looked like a tree trunk, with claw marks illustrated through it, and a drawing of a footprint.  One that looked very familiar, but he suppressed the groan that started to rise in him until he knew for sure what it was.  “Ya find anythin’ other than prints and scratches?”

“I’ve found pieces of clothing but never any bodies, barely any blood.  Whatever it is probably takes them elsewhere or is really really hungry.  It started taking people about a month ago,” the woman spoke a mile a minute, hardly even looking at him.  

“Are all village healers this committed to justice?”  Gajeel finally interjected.  “Or is it just you?”

Levy shot him a glance that unnerved him, a narrowed glare that made him feel exposed, and that was not something he felt often.  “These days, these lands, it’s usually just me.  The Black Ones can’t be bothered, I’m sure they think it’s population control as long as it doesn’t affect them.  And I can’t very well make a plea to Radovid.”  Gajeel lifted a brow at that, slightly taken aback.  The Witcher tilted his head, quietly urging her to continue.  Levy, as though realizing how much she had said, paused a moment before she gave him a tired smile, glancing at her books.  “I’ve had interest in grimoires in the past, they have a great deal of historic value.  I collect them, it’s a shame for them to be burned.  But it would be enough to get me into some red hot trouble.”

Now that was unusual.  “That’s a ballsy thing to collect,” he remarked.  “Don’t seem like somethin’ worth facing the witch hunters for.”

“That’s subjective,” she shot back.  “They don’t bother coming this deep into the swamps, there are plenty of non-humans and paraphernalia in Novigrad for them to hunt and burn.  Now, can we get back to this?” she tilted her head, effectively ending that topic.

Gajeel huffed at her and rolled his yellow eyes, “Fine fine.”  May as well play along, he didn’t want to drag this out any more than she.  “This is all great.  Point me in the right direction and I’ll take it from here.”

Now the healer turned to face him fully, her face full of defiance that he could tell was going to make this far more difficult.  “Oh no, I’ll take you there myself.”

“You’ll whatnow?” he replied, crossing his arms.  “Nuh-uh, I can’t have the village gardener following me out there, it ain’t safe.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Watched a lot of people die who said they could ‘handle themselves.’”

“I’m not a lot of people,”  she stared him down again with those hard, brown eyes.  “I will take you there, and I’ll let you do your thing.  I swear, I’ll stay out of the way, but I need to see what it is.”  

“Why?  Curiosity killed the cat, or however that goes,” Gajeel replied dismissively.

“And satisfaction brought it back, is how the rest of it goes.  Call me a seeker of knowledge.”  She stood strong, steadfast, staring right into his yellow eyes in a way that most found themselves unable to.  Usually the not-so-human gaze was enough to keep eye contact to a minimum.  Generally the world didn’t know how to feel about Witchers,  A necessity, an abomination, human or not.  There were tales told to naughty children that a Witcher would come and steal them in the night and eat them up.  But most of those same people pleaded with them when the Drowners patrolled their shores or a Hym crept into their guilt-ridden hearts.  The same people that spat at them also wrote contracts when they were in trouble.

“Fine.  But I’m not your escort, that ain’t the contract, and I can’t protect ya.  And speaking of, we need to talk about my payment before we go farther.”

Levy stared him down a moment longer, not wanting to back off, but she finally released a sigh.  “Right, of course, Witchers don’t hunt for free,” she responded, whirling from him and heading to a chest in the back corner of the room.  She opened it up and pulled out a small, jingling pouch.  “I already set it aside.  Two hundred crowns should be enough?”

The Witcher raised his brows, “More than enough.  Didn’t know a healer was that well-to-do, especially in Velen.  Most patients can’t afford to pay much.”

“I get by,” Levy responded simply, dropping the pouch back into the chest and locking it.  “Let’s go, we should get as much done as possible before dark.  That’s when it strikes.”

“Lead the way then.”

* * *

Gajeel ran his gloved fingers through the grooves slashed into the wood of the tree and smelled his hand.  “Earthy, claws coated in soil,” he mumbled to himself, looking up the trunk of the swaying tree.  Several feet up, taller than he, the bark had been scraped off entirely.  He’d seen these kinds of markings before, though usually, they were much lower; the height of a deer.  “Scraped horns, or antlers up there, probably sharpening them,” he continued, before glancing at the very intrigued woman behind him.  “Where did you see the tracks?”

Levy started and looked around her quickly, before picking a direction.  Several yards from the scratched tree, she found a large, deep imprint in the soil, “Here, this is the one I found.”

The Witcher knelt next to the track and touched the dirt. “Days old.  But, I might be able to follow it.”  He looked back to her, finally noting what she was wearing.  She dressed like she had planned from the beginning to follow him out here.  Attached to a leather strap slung around her  waist was a pouch, weighted with whatever ingredients she planned to use.  Instead of the typical matronly skirts she was wearing fitted trousers into which she had tucked a white blouse that was breathable, easy to move in, with a tie across her neck to ensure she was covered no matter how she moved.  Her knee-high boots were worn, heavily used, giving him the notion she spent very little time inside.  Where it was safe for small human women to be.  

“Do you have an idea of what it is?” she finally asked, not carefully.  She was confident.

“Judging by the height of the antler scrapes on that tree I have an idea of how big it is, and the scent left by the claws is deep, earthy, with a hint of rot.  These prints are familiar, I’ve seen them before, and based on what you’ve already told me, we might be dealing with a Fiend,” he scanned her face, waiting for the fear, but she just looked intrigued.  Her brows rose as though she had thought it might be something different, but still not something that phased her.

“Are you sure?”

“You know about them,” Gajeel stated, rather than asked.  Most villagers didn’t know the names of the less common monsters, let alone the ancient ones: Relicts.  They knew about the Ghouls, Rotfiends, Drowners.  The monsters that followed the pervasive death in their war-torn land were common knowledge.  But the Relicts were the danger in the dark, creatures without names they knew of.  Creatures of fear.

But she was here asking him if he was sure with nothing but determination on her face.  “I know of them.  I read.”

Gajeel had the gut feeling that she was not telling him something, or just not being truthful.  But he wasn’t here to learn about her or dig up her secrets.  He was here to complete the contract.  “Has that satisfied your curiosity or do ya need to pet it?”  Gajeel remarked.

“Are all Witchers this brutish or is it just you?” Levy spat, placing her hands on her hips.

“Mutations rob us of decency.  Not my fault,” Gajeel shrugged, but he grinned devilishly at her.  He could see her prickle, ready to fire back at him, but instead he interrupted her again.  “I need to stay here and prepare until the sun sets, when it comes out to hunt again.  Ya need to head back to your village now.  You’ll only be a distraction, shorty.”

Levy narrowed her eyes, stiffening completely.  “ _ What  _ did you call me?”

“I called ya beautiful,” Gajeel fired back at her with a smirk, watching her go stiff.  “Go home,” he turned from her then before she could regain her composure, and followed the trail.

Surprisingly, Levy let him walk away without more than an angry huff and muttered curses.  And he actually heard her turn around and leave back from where they came.  Maybe she decided to finally make it easier on him, but the less optimistic side of him knew that was likely not going to be the case.   


Regardless, he had a job to do, and he set off to follow the old tracks deeper into the woods.  He needed to first get closer to its center of activity, and then all he needed to do was wait for dark.

* * *

The sun had started to sink low on the horizon when the medallion around his neck started to hum.  Gajeel took a deep breath and opened his eyes, quickly scanning the area around him from where he sat cross-legged beneath a tree.  It had taken about as long as he expected to start sensing signs of the Fiend, and the hum of his medallion came soon after.  The silver wolf’s head shook, eyes glowing a brilliant crimson any time monsters were near: a useful tool to any Witcher.  

Silently, Gajeel eased himself up onto his feet and reached back, wrapping his fingers around one of the two hilts over his shoulder.  The silver hissed out of the sheath, glimmering in the orange light peeking through the trees.  With his free hand, he pulled a small glass vial from the pouch at his side and yanked out the cork with his teeth.  The Witcher poured the Relict oil liberally across his blade, twisting it in his grasp to ensure it covered as much as the weapon as possible, sinking into the runes along the silver.  It would be poison to the creature, and he had been fortunate enough to already have some in his possession.  

In front of him he saw green only, but the birds had gone quiet, and no crickets sung in their wake.  He steadied his breathing as hum of his medallion grew more intense and a deep rumble grew in the forest beyond his vision.  Then he heard its breathing, deep, gargled, and uneven.  A breeze rustled the trees then, and he cursed silently as it pushed at his back, and all sounds in the wood beyond stopped.  Gajeel had just started to tighten the grip on his sword when he heard something else, something at his rear.

Instinctively, the Witcher spun, blade at the ready, but it was not the Fiend he saw.  Instead, it was a flash of blue.  His yellow eyes went wide seeing her there, holding something in one hand while the other was raised defensively.  Immediately the irritation boiled out of him.  “What the  _ hell _ do you think--”

A deafening roar from the direction he had originally faced drowned out his words, followed by the sound of splintering and exploding wood.  Without another thought, he used his free arm to wrap around her waist and haul the tiny woman up and over this shoulder.  Her shouts of protest filled his ears along with everything else, but he couldn’t be bothered with her opinions at this point.  He’d barely had time to look behind him to see the massive creature charging straight for them before he started to run, weaving to the left around trees that would hopefully slow the onslaught.  

The Fiend flew by them, showering the two in wood splinters and leaves, taking several strides before it could skid to a halt.  

Gajeel hastily dropped Levy back to the ground and rose to his full height, squaring his shoulders to glower down at her.  “ _ Go. Home!” _ he snarled, “You know what I am, you know I can make you.  I won’t ask again and I won’t save you next time.”  

Levy glared right back, flushed from the interaction.  But her resolve held firm as she took a sharp step towards him, looking ready to hit him over the head.  “I don’t  _ need _ you to!  I can bloody help you if you just let me--hey!”  Gajeel had already turned from her and wholly ignored her words, racing back towards the Fiend while its back was still turned.  Levy watched as he sprinted headlong into danger, at a speed greater than any man.  This was a Witcher in true form, and frustrated or not she had to admire that for what it was.

The Fiend started to turn to him as he reached striking distance, and at full speed Gajeel dropped to his knees, both hands now gripping his blade.  He swung the silver to his left, slashing the metal into the beast’s rear legs.  It screeched in agony, flashing countless fangs, as the toxic oil and silver dug into its flesh.  It lurched forward, blindly swinging its massive rack of antlers.  

On the last cut, Gajeel forced his weight into the strike, using the Fiend as an anchor to swing himself around and come to a stop.  He leapt up to his feet, swinging his blade up high over his head to bring down upon its back.

But the Fiend was faster, spinning round to face Gajeel and swing the back of a paw into him, but not before his silver dug instead into its shoulder.  The Witcher flew backwards, his back slamming into the trunk of a tree a great distance from the monster.  A pained cough ripped from him as pain sung through his entire body, but his grip on his blade held steady.  

Gajeel looked up to see it begin to charge at him again, and despite the pain he started to move.  His left hand flew up in front of him and quickly drew the sign of Igni in the air, just as a blast of fire manifested and flew into the grotesque face of the beast.  It screeched again, lurching to the side to try and keep the fire from its eyes, which diverted its charge just enough to miss Gajeel by mere feet.  

He grunted as he pulled himself back up, staggering a few steps back to face it, ready.  His sides heaved already, aggravating a pain in his back that he knew would be gone in a few days, but in this moment it was brutal.  He’d left himself open to that swipe and it was a misstep he was paying for.

The Fiend finally whirled back around and took several stalking steps towards him, head low like it meant to charge again. The dense fur down it’s back rose and bristled, adding even more to its size.  Its mouth hung open in a pant, thick globs of drool dripping from the maw that wanted so badly to tear into his flesh.  It dug a paw into the earth, tensing, just as the third eye in the middle of its forehead opened.

“ _ Shit!! _ ” Gajeel cursed harshly, seconds before he went rigid and everything in his vision went black.  All he saw was that single eye in front of him, burning through the darkness.  Most humans unfortunate enough to find a Fiend would know this as the last thing they saw before their death, as they could not perceive where the beast would now be.  But a Witcher could see it move, know when it drew closer, even if all their other senses were dimmed.  It greatly impeded him, but he had some loose grasp on when to dodge, which would be enough for him to stay alive until it wore off.  Theoretically.

In the dark, he could see it draw closer, and stalk off to the left, trying to shake his attention.  Trying to fool him.  He willed his body to step back, to keep his sword in front of him, and he could only hope he was actually doing what he thought.  The movements of the eye became more erratic, and he knew it was moving to him, coming to finish him.  It lunged, and he raised his blade.

The dark shattered with an explosion, followed by the agonized scream of the Fiend.  All at once he saw everything clearly and moved freely again, and he watched as the Fiend stumbled backwards, pawing at its soot-covered face.  Gajeel inhaled the smoke rising from it, and his eyes went wide.   _ Devil’s Puffball?!  But how did, _ his thoughts trailed off as he turned his attention, and once again saw the blue-haired woman.  But now, he truly saw her.

Because there she stood, with another bomb in her left hand.  But more intriguing than the fact she had presumably crafted the very bomb the monster was susceptible to, was what her right hand was doing.  Her fingers moved, danced, shaping and maintaining a small ball of flame in front of her palm.  The fire lit her face in the dying light of the forest, casting her narrowed honey eyes aglow and streaks of gold through her hair in a way that he would not soon forget.  Sparks danced off of her as her clothing and hair swayed in a phantom wind, and he could feel the magic radiating off of the woman.

“Are you going to move or did that not break it’s hold?  Now, Witcher!”  Levy cried out, watching the monster begin to recover and now turn its gaze upon her.  She hissed through her teeth, bringing the wick of the last bomb to her flame, as she lobbed both at the creature.

The second boom set Gajeel into motion, watching the Fiend now fall hard onto the ground.  He made one final charge at the felled target.  The witcher leapt, arcing his sword up, over his head, and then brought it down with everything he had into the monster’s neck.  The force almost cut straight through, but as the last of the Relict oil flowed into the wound, the Fiend gave one final, disoriented struggle.  It lashed out, dragging claws deep into Gajeel’s right arm and threw him back.  After that final defiance, its life slipped away, chest caving with its last breath.

Gajeel staggered backwards, holding his hand over the wound that now had blood running rivers down his slack arm.  He coughed once and shook his head, the pain from his back and arm mingling with one another.  Still, he managed to turn his attention back to the woman, who stood steady, expectantly.  They stared at each other for several quiet moments, the flames now gone as her visage returned to what he had mistaken for a simple herbalist earlier.

Finally, the Witcher found his words in between his heavy breaths, “You’re a damn mage.”

* * *

“Someone is gonna report you for those books if you leave ‘em in plain view like that,” Gajeel commented, followed by a groan of pain as she dabbed a wet cloth to the open flesh on his bicep.  The fire at her hearth cast a bright orange light through the small abode, giving the sorceress enough light to work on his wounds.  At her urging, he had come back to her home after the Fiend had been disposed of, if not just for his payment as much as a little curiosity.  He sat on the floor shirtless in front of her fireplace, his tunic, chest armor, and swords on the floor next to them.

“No one here would risk losing their healer,” Levy responded, trying to focus on cleaning out the injury.  The Fiend’s claws were filthy, and it would infect if she didn’t clean this well enough before applying a salve.  But, the horrific scars across his back were a distraction, more so than the perfectly muscled frame.  She knew well enough what Witchers did for a living, and she felt she was staring at a book in another language.  The distinctive teeth marks, large enough to be a bear’s, on his shoulder.  The purplish slash that ran with ragged edges diagonally from right shoulder to left hip.  Multiple round scars that could have been from arrows, or spears.  A burn or two.  A bluish purple bruise had blossomed and spread from the center of his back, creeping outwards from where he had hit the tree.  And she hadn’t even fully seen his front.

“Still risky being a mage in Velen.  How’d ya find yourself here?” Gajeel asked despite himself. 

Levy hummed a little, dipping her rag into the water again and wringing it out.  “It’s a better hiding place than you’d think,” she replied, not quite the answer he was looking for.  “The witch hunters ransack known mages in their homes in Novigrad and classrooms at Oxenfurt.  They know to find mages there, but wouldn’t expect to find one like me in the swamps.  And there’s a need for me here.”

He turned his head, looking at her from over his shoulder, studying her for a second. It made sense.  If one imagined a swamp witch, they wouldn’t think of one like her, a tiny beauty surrounded by flowers.  “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough,” she answered, trying to focus, and also not give all of herself to a complete stranger.

The shortness of her answers had the opposite effect on Gajeel, because he wanted to know more about the surprise mage.  “Are you in contact with the Lodge at all?” he finally asked.

Levy flicked her gaze up to him, warily.  But she saw only mild curiosity on that stoic face.  “I was once.  We’ve lost touch,” she put her rag aside.  “They have their own charades to uphold.”

Gajeel finally chuckled, giving her a wry smile, “I didn’t know the Lodge took in dwarves.”

The small mage prickled again and flicked a small bolt of static into his face that surprised him.  “I’ll kick you right out with half your damn coin and a festering wound if you don’t cut that right out,” she hissed.  Gajeel raised a hand in surrender, still wrinkling his tingling nose, and looked back to the fire.  “You’re a damn brute,” she started, “But you are not what I expected of a Witcher.”

Gajeel raised a brow at that, “You ain’t met one before?” 

“You’re the first,” she replied.  “Townsfolk talk about you all like you’re as bad as the Fiend.  Bloodthirsty thieves of children in the night.”  She’d been intrigued to the point of near excitement when she wrote and sent off the contract, knowing that she would finally have the opportunity to meet one of his kind.  True, she knew enough about the beasts of this land, thanks to many books Witchers of multiple schools themselves had written, to know what the Fiend would have been weak to and had enough ingredients in her stock to make just about anything.  But that alone would not have killed it.  She needed a Witcher’s skillset to actually dispatch the creature.  And now that she knew one as infamous as he… well that could very well serve her in the future.

“And what do ya make of me?” he rumbled, turning his glimmering yellow eyes onto her.

She hesitated.  “You certainly didn’t have to save me, brash as it was.  You knew where my coin was, I was little consequence to you.”

“Eh.  Bad for business if I let the people who contract me die,” Gajeel mumbled, tearing his gaze from her.  They went quiet then for several long moments, neither sure how much more they could probe even if they wanted to.  “Thanks,” he finally said after a few beats of silence.  Teasing aside, she had helped him significantly, both with the Fiend and now.  

Levy hummed as a simple reply, hovering her hand over the wound as a green light emanated from it.  A warm sensation spread through his arm, and he looked back again to see the wound closing up, until it was just another thick, pink line across his flesh to add to his collection.  “There,” she said softly, leaning back from him.  

Gajeel rolled his shoulder, only feeling a dull ache from his injuries now, and a throb in his head.  Certainly better off than he had expected to be at the end of today.  “Not bad,” he commented, crossing his arms and closing his eyes.  A deep sigh heaved from him.  “Ya mind if I take a few?  Been a long day…” he muttered.  He could hear her get up to her feet and take a few steps away from him.  

“Mmm,” she hummed the affirmative, and it was the last he remembered before he let exhaustion take him.  

When he awoke early the next morning, she was gone, and the coin purse was sitting atop his clean and folded armor, with a stalk of lavender.


	2. Chapter 2

_ The fire crept through, licking at the edges of his consciousness and weaving trails he tried to follow.  They were the light in the dark, and the Witcher stumbled through to keep up with them.  Farther and farther the fire got away from him, while his empty hands gripped at the thickened dark.  The deeper he got into the black, the more a collection of embers started to blossom in front of him.  He picked up his pace, racing now towards the light that beckoned him. _

_ Then the light took form, and he stopped running.  Waves on fire.  Gold, blue running into one another, the locks brushed over her shoulders, drawing him into that current in a way he could imagine drowning in it.  She wore something different than when he first saw her, but he couldn’t make out the details of it, as she started to turn to face him.  Her eyes burned brighter than any flame, lit by the movements of her delicate fingers.  From them the threads of flame originated, and she weaved them expertly in front of her.  To bring him to her. _

_ Slowly, the woman lifted her eyes to meet his, and in them he saw immeasurable intensity.  And a dose of fear.  Her mouth moved with silent words, words he couldn’t understand.  He tried to get closer to her, but the distance between them didn’t change.  Slowly she smiled at him, and flicked the flames off her hands.  Her lips moved again, and he finally heard her voice, clear as day. _

_ “Gajeel.” _

* * *

 

The Witcher sputtered awake, sitting up quickly.  His yellow eyes darted around him, reminding himself where he was.  The now-dead campfire, two horses grazing nearby, a large tree overhead, the sun just starting to rise over the horizon.

“How many of those dreams do you have to shoot up from before you go talk to the witch again?”

The deep, gravelly voice drew Gajeel’s attention to his left.  The umber-skinned man lounged against the trunk of the tree, his bare arms crossed over his chest.  He regarded Gajeel with one golden eye, while a thick, old scar ran over his milky left one.  A taunting smile played across his face, knowing what had ripped his close friend from sleep.

Gajeel hissed, narrowing his eye at his companion before looking away.  “Shut up, Lil,” he grumbled, rubbing his face to erase the images from his head.

“You haven’t had a solid sleep since you ran off to Midcopse on your own,” the other Witcher pressed.  “Sorceresses are dangerous, Gajeel.”

“They’re just dreams,” Gajeel fired back, “Drop it, Lily.”  His friend wasn’t far off the mark.  It had been weeks since he killed the Fiend, but he could not get the image of the little mage out of his head.  He tried his best to tell himself it was the shock of her reveal that stuck with him, but so many nights he had the same dream.  And he couldn’t help feeling like she was calling out to him.

Lily raised his hands in surrender, “Fine, fine.  But the lack of sleep better not slow you down.  I’d rather not have to patch you up again after a monster uses you as a distracted chewtoy.”

“I recall havin’ to save your ass after many a Griffin so I don’t wanna hear it,” he snapped, rolling his shoulders.  “Now, what’s the contract again?”

“Do you ever listen to me?” Lily grumbled, running a palm over his buzzed scalp with a sigh.

“Not my fault ya decided to tell me about it after my fifth Kaedweni,” Gajeel shrugged, still able to taste the dark stout.  They’d been kicked out of the tavern after his eighth, when he decided it was a good idea to get into a brawl over cards.  It seemed worth it at the time but in retrospect he would have rather passed out in a bed that night.  And though Lily wasn’t saying anything, he could feel the bitterness hanging around him.  Gajeel was not an easy drunk to take care of.

His friend merely rolled his eye, sparing Gajeel a lecture he had heard many times before.  “As I told you last night, it’s not a formal contract.  I just heard some men talking at the tavern.  There’s a refugee camp, a half day’s ride south, but it’s been taken over by bandits that’re holding them hostage.  It would be of great benefit to the area to have the camp freed up again.”

“What bandits do usually ain’t our concern,” Gajeel remarked, crossing his arms.  “We hunt monsters, not men.”

“No, but should we free them, that’ll be a lot of very greatful civilians.  There’s like to be a reward in it,” Lily explained, “Plus--”

“Plus you’re a bleedin’ heart?”

“You know very well I hate this damn war, Gajeel.  Both sides of it.  If there’s a mutually beneficial opportunity to help, I’m going to take it,” Lily explained, tight-lipped; like he had more he wanted to say but held back.  Gajeel, knowingly, did not push.  Lily started to get up onto his feet, picking up his swords to strap both over his back, fastening the buckle over the chest of his sleeveless armor.  Though Witchers aged significantly slower than humans thanks to their mutations, Lily looked at least ten years Gajeel’s senior.  Grey started to pepper the black stubble on his face and fine wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, the only indicators that he was aging at all.  But the sinewy muscle that flexed on his exposed arms, just as toned as Gajeel, showed age had done nothing to dull his finesse.

“Alright, calm down.  Damn,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes,  “Guess it’ll be nice to use some steel for a change,” Gajeel grinned, a dark mirth flashing across his face as he rose as well, grabbing his swords.  He didn’t often delight in killing humans, but he had no qualms with gutting bandits.  And it had been a long while since he’d had the chance to remind people why they called him Black Steel. 

“Oh, by the way,” Lily started, not bothering to look at his friend as he grabbed the saddle of his horse, “The ride will conveniently swing us fairly close to Midcopse on the way.”  He swore he heard Gajeel choke, and he had to stuff down the laugh that threatened to break out.

“One of these days, Panther, one of these days, I’m going to let the next Griffin just have you,” Gajeel growled.

“Don’t call me that, you know I hate it,” Lily warned as he hauled himself into the saddle.  Lily was far more understated than Gajeel had ever been, and had a style far more geared towards stealth and calculation.  He preferred the quiet, calculated kill, and he gradually garnered the nickname.  It was a style he had tried to teach to Gajeel, but the boy had a wild mind and a raw talent that would not be guided towards the calm and collected route.  

“Why the hell do ya think I call you it,” Gajeel pulled up onto his own horse and dug his heels into its side.

* * *

“I’m not going in, Lil,” Gajeel grumbled, staring at the village down the road.  “We got places to be.”  He didn’t even know what he would do if he did go back.  What would he say?  What reason had he to really go?  He couldn’t tell her she’d plagued his dreams for weeks, so he just decided to ‘check in.’  “What the hell you want me to say to her?”

“Oh, just suck it up, boy.  I’m sick of listening to you whine in your sleep,” Lily groaned at him.

But the other Witcher growled a curse under his breath and yanked on the reins of his horse, turning them in the other direction.  “No.”  His voice was harsh, final, and Lily knew there was no changing his mind.  The older Witcher sighed deeply, but wordlessly moved his horse to follow Gajeel, away from Midcopse.  He would try again on their way back.

They smelled the smoke and death before they saw any signs of the camp.  Both Witchers quietly dismounted from their horses and left them to graze near a tree.  Carefully, they moved off into the brush, weaving around trees to remain under cover.  

“We should get a good look of the layout.  See where they’re thinnest and get an idea of how many versus civilians,” Lily suggested, keeping his tone low.  There was a fluid, very feline nature to his movements now, with intense focus on the path in front of him.  His namesake became very apparent the moment he decided to get serious, whether he wanted it or not.  

Gajeel grunted in response, and came to a crouch at the edge of the treeline, at the top of the hill.  Down the slope, nestled in the large clearing were several tents that were once used by the refugees.  Beyond the camp, onwards to the south, lay open grassland.  The camp now bustled with the movement of several large, armed men, with clubs and axes slung over their shoulders.  Something in their appearance looked different from the usual road-rabble, and the two of them glanced at each other curiously. The Witchers steadied their breathing and focused, listening to what they could below.  They could hear the bandits’ conversations, hear women and children crying, and hear the voices of others trying to comfort them.  

“At least twenty, likely more,” Lily whispered, narrowing his eyes, his good one slowly scanning over the settlement.  “More civilians than that, hard to know how many.  Hear the chains?”

“Mm,” Gajeel nodded, “Have them trapped inside.”  He drew a deep breath and grimaced, “Haven’t bothered to take out the dead.  In a while.”  Monsters.  Men loved so much to think they were somehow above the beasts that came out of the cataclysm, that those were the true monsters.  When really, they were just reflections of themselves from another realm.  They were no better, but the existence of monsters allowed them to separate their own depravity from it and somehow sleep at night.  “Suggestions?”

“We split up.  I’ll hit the east, you the west.  Kill as many of  _ them _ as you can, I’ll release as many hostages as I can, to get them out of the way.  Take away their leverage,” the older Witcher looked to Gajeel, “Slice first, figure out who they are after.”  With that, Lily stalked away from Gajeel, melting into the shadows.

He shifted his weight from one side to the other and sniffed again, something not quite right.  He couldn’t figure out what it was, but his instincts told him to move carefully.  Still, a thrill surged through his blood, quieting his doubts as he headed off in the opposite direction of his mentor.  He regarded the camp with the eyes of a predator, keeping to the edge of the underbrush to keep his cover as he descended down the hill.  His side seemed more active than Lily’s, but considering his friend had intended to focus on the hostages, and their potential pay, it made sense.  Gajeel’s focus was entirely on the bandits.  

Gajeel took one more deep, calming breath, honing all his senses on the first bandits he saw several yards in front of him, milling between the tents.  They were laughing about something, and one of them entered a tent where he heard sounds of fear from a child.  The Witcher narrowed his yellow eyes and reached back, grabbing the hilt of his steel blade: Kurogane.  It whispered on its way out of the sheath, the black steel glinting dangerously in what light reached him.  Rivulets and waves of varying shades of black and deep gray formed infinite patterns along its face, and the edges were sharpened to deadly perfection.  This blade was his pride, and he took better care of it than he did himself.

With that, the Witcher rose, striding calmly from his hiding place into the fray.  It took until he was just nearing the first tent for one of the men to realize he did not belong.  The first bandit growled out a warning curse, gripping his axe and swinging it up in front of him.  But in a blur, Gajeel was upon him, swinging his black blade upwards from his side.  The bandit did not have time to react before it split him, gut to chin, and he dropped in a shower of red.  All attention swung to Gajeel now, and every bandit went tense, regarding the Witcher with the black blade, and blood splattered across his grinning face.

“Black Steel!”

* * *

Nothing.  Not so much as a spark, a fizzle.  Nothing at all.  The dimeritium shackles completely blocked any magic that would have otherwise been flowing, and every time she tried to muster anything, she felt a shred of the familiar warmth and then nothing.  It cut off abruptly before she could manage anything tangible, and a spear of pain shot through her skull each time she tried.  She watched her skin begin to discolor where the metal touched it, and a dull ache pulsed from it.

Her warm eyes looked to the area around her, to anything she could hope to use, but they had been meticulous.  She knew they had been looking for her the second they revealed the dimeritium; why else bring it unless they had expected to find a sorceress?  A sorceress on the run no less.  She knew it was too high profile to come here, to a place with so much traffic.  She had not established loyalty to these people liek she had in her village, even if she had helped them.  They were frightened, unstable fold who had escaped war, and were looking for anything that could help them recover in the world.  

But she had known about the camp near Midcopse for some time, and knew there would be people who needed her.  It was a massive risk, but to help people displaced by and running from the war, she felt it worth it.  She’d been tending to the wounded for weeks, travelling back and forth between here and her home long before she’d been stymied by the Fiend.

But then they came.  Only two at first, they really did seem like more refugees; they had gone as far as to injure one another to be convincing.  She had started to tend to them, to heal them, and faster than she could react the shackles were on her wrists.  Then the rest came: men better equipped than any normal bandit.  No, they sought bounties, and what better than Radovid’s bounty on the head of every Lodge sorceress still alive?  It was the only reason she was left alive, and not in worse shape. 

But the rest of the camp was not so lucky.  Though the majority of the camp was made up of displaced humans, some nonhumans had found their way into the mix, fleeing the hunters.  Hoping there might be better luck for an elf or halfling here than anywhere else.  How poorly that had failed; they were the first to die.  They’d gotten away from the witch hunters, and instead fell to different humans with hatred in their hearts.  The rest were used for labor.

Levy could hear them talking about her outside the tent; they used her name, first and last.  A Redanian unit was already well on their way to retrieve the sorceress Levy McGarden, and with these shackles and her size, there was nothing she could do about it.  No way she could fight other than trying to talk to whomever came for her next to offer her stale bread and a sip of water.  To keep the prize alive.  But her words usually earned her a curse, or a strike if she was unlucky.  This day had been long coming, she knew that, but she had still expected to be better prepared for it.  

So she waited, chained in the tent alone, the middle of her shackles attached to a pike in the earth.  For days that she had nearly lost track of, she waited in that spot.  They hadn’t come in to see her that day, and she wondered if that was the day the regiment was set to arrive.

Waited, until the shouting began.  Levy went straight, trying to peer out the front of her tent, but unable to see anything but the men running in two different directions.  Had the Redanians arrived?  No, the shouting wasn’t right.  The screams, rather; they were agonized.

The little mage’s heart started to pound and she yanked on her chains, but the pike didn’t budge.  Her fingers moved and she furrowed her brow, trying to make a spark, but her magic died in her veins.  Still, Levy refused to be still, and resolved to at least try.  She would not be taken without a struggle, futile or not.  She refused to meet the same fate as some of the others.

* * *

_ Clang! _

Their swords sung with the collision, as Gajeel held the man back with both hands gripped to the hilt of his blade, arms trembling from the effort.  His opponent pushed, trying to gain some purchase against the Witcher, and Gajeel held firm for a second longer before his elbows buckled and he stepped to the right.  Surprised, the bandit felt forward as Gajeel slid his sword up and away from the other.  In one fluid motion, he arced the blade up and over the man, bringing it down with thunderous strength onto his back.  The black steel sliced through the man’s leather armor like butter, and the body dropped limp to the earth.  

He yanked his weapon free and spun it once in his grip, flinging droplets of blood in a circle from it.  Several locks of black hair had drawn loose from his ponytail and hung in his face, sticking to the blood on his cheeks.  He’d made it almost to the center of the settlement at this point, a trail of men littered behind him.  Across the camp, he could see Lily making equally swift work of the bandits, stopping only to step briefly into the tents he passed, as frantic people fled from them soon after.

Three more armed men gathered, intentionally in front of the opening to another tent near him and faced Gajeel with a new urgency that piqued his interest.  His eyes flicked to the tent they had come between, and he smirked.  “Got somethin’ nice in there?” he finally spoke up.  With his luck, there would be a heavy chest inside and they wouldn’t need anyone to pay them after.  After all, bandits loved to hoard their loot.

One of the three men cast a cautious glance at the others and stepped back a little, placing a not-so-subtle hand on his pocket.  “Well?  You lot gonna fuckin’ kill the whoreson or not?!”  The other two finally snapped to attention, lifting their weapons. 

Gajeel got into a stance, waiting for them with his sword in his right hand and his left poised on front of him.  “Try it…” he mumbled, his yellow eyes flickering.  

The men charged, and Gajeel’s gaze flicked over each one of them, and the tent.   _ Three targets, one shot.  I can make this quick, _ he thought, counting their steps until…

He made a sign with his free hand and punched it forwards as a surge of unseen power flew from him.  The Ard slammed into the two men in front of him, into the third, and flew by the tent.  The force of it ripped away the front of the tent, pulling the tattered cloth down in one sheet to expose what was inside, but Gajeel was already moving.  He lurched forward at the same moment the blast left him, all his focus on the three bandits, who had been thrown to the ground.  His black sword plunged into the first man he reached, as his hand flew out to the man trying to recover right next to him.  He formed another sign, and the same blast slammed into him, but this time straight down into the ground.  The bandit screamed as bones broke, and Gajeel yanked the blade out of the first body, already heading for the third. 

The thug was barely trying to regain his breath, coughing for air, but Gajeel was already on him.  “Y-you don’t know what yer fuckin’ with…” he coughed, trying to slide away from him.  “Fuckin’ freak…!”

“Ohh… ya don’t want to call me that…” Gajeel growled, swinging his blade.  “Ya should have picked up a different profession, now let’s see what ya got in that pocket.”  Before the man could spit more insults, Gajeel plunged his blade into the bandit’s gut.  He could hear Lily close now, drawing attention away from him, enough that he had a chance to kneel down and empty the pocket of the man.   _ Hnn… a key. _  There had to be something  _ really _ good in that chest then.

The Witcher stood and turned to face the tent again, and froze, his heart suddenly running at a gallop.

The blue-haired mage sat in the center of the ruined structure, her sides heaving from just as much shock as Gajeel felt himself. Her hair was in complete disarray, her yellow tunic covered now in dust.  She blinked once, honey eyes looking him over.  “Gajeel…” she breathed, stunned that the Witcher stood before her yet again.  Immediately her heart and mind went into double time, and she looked to the key in his hand, eyes going wide with the realization.  She threw her hands up, catching on the chains as she winced.  “H-hurry!  You must get me out of these, now!  There’s no time!” she pleaded, her voice cracking.

Gajeel snapped out of his stupor when she spoke, and he stumbled towards her.  His large hands fumbled with the shackles,  _ Dimeritium…? _ he thought, looking to her quickly. This just got much more complicated if these men had access to dimeritium, and had specifically taken her hostage.  “What have ya gotten into now?” he asked, finally managing to unlock the cuffs.  

Levy shook her hands free and stood, shaky on her feet.  Her knees buckled and she almost sunk back to the ground had it not been for Gajeel hooking his arm around her back for support.  She steadied herself quickly and stepped away from him, brushing the dust off herself with a wary glance in his direction.  “We need to leave, we--”

“Gajeel!  We got company!” Lily cried out, drawing the attention of the two of them to the edge of the camp, out towards the fields.  They saw the banners first: red, with the white eagle emblazoned across it.  A company of at least fifteen heavily armored Redanian soldiers rode from the south at a pace that could only mean they knew what they were coming for.  And within a matter of minutes they would reach them for it.

Levy backed away farther from Gajeel, her eyes looking around her quickly, trying to form a plan, but the Witcher reached out and put his hand on her shoulder, forcing her to look at him.  “What the hell are ya doing here?!” he demanded, towering over her.

“That’s not important!” Levy shouted as she shrugged away from his touch and lifted her hands up in front of her.  Sparks sputtered in front of her fingers, but she still felt the effects of the shackles as she tried to flick magic from her hands.  A string of curses fell from her lips as she glanced at the approaching soldiers.  Her captors.

“Gajeel!  Are we standing or backing down?” Lily called again, making his way to them, clutching his steel blade.  He was equally splattered in blood and dirt, sides heaving from the effort.  “I freed as many as I could find but the rest of the bandits have backed off to the Redanians.”  He looked to Levy now, raising his brows at the magic she tried to cast.  He shot a questioning stare to Gajeel, who merely shook his head.  

“We stand.  We can’t outrun them and they are coming for us.  For her.” Gajeel replied, studying the woman.  She had a blossoming bruise around her right eye, and a cut on her lip.  They’d not been gentle with her, even though she’d been completely disarmed, and for whatever reason this fact grew seeds of anger in his chest.  As though oblivious to him, she shook her hands again, and small bolts of blue shot off of them at last.  “O-Oi!” Gajeel exclaimed, taking a step away from her instinctively.

Levy shot him a look that stilled him, gold flickering through her irises.  She looked determined, steady, and he could see her thoughts racing, while blue electricity danced from her fingertips. “If you want to escape them--this--I need you to trust me like you know me, for five minutes.  Just five minutes.”

“Gajeel, we should leave,  _ now _ .  This is  _ not _ our fight, and it’s more than we came here for,” his friend urged, taking a tight hold on his arm. There was nothing but wariness with regards to the sorceress.  He had already pieced together that this was the one that plagued Gajeel, but that certainly didn’t mean he trusted her.  

Still, Gajeel hesitated, watching her turn away from him, noticing the ever so subtle shaking in her hands as she held them out to her sides.  She was afraid, and she did not wait for an answer.  Gajeel wasn’t stupid, he knew why Redanian soldiers would be here.  If she was ever involved with the Lodge, then she had a price on her head.  Radovid would stop at nothing to round all of them back up, and it looked like they had come damn close to getting her.

“I need to buy some time.  I can’t make one, just yet…” she muttered to herself, rolling her shoulders, then her head.  Her neck popped and she exhaled, trying to center herself.  To focus.

The company had just entered the southern border of the camp as Levy stopped in place and lifted her hands high.  She muttered unintelligible words under her breath, the sparks growing in intensity.  Her hair whipped about her face, the electricity raising the locks and ruffling her tunic.  She stared, unwavering, at the wall of horses that raced towards them, blades already unsheathed and at the ready.

Levy took in a sharp breath, feeling her magic once more course through her in burning waves.  Her hands closed into fists as she swung her arms down in front of her. 

A deafening crack cut through the air as a massive bolt of lightning fired down from the blue heavens at the head of the charge, exploding into the earth.  Horses and men screamed as they went flying, and the attack cleared out half the company with a single strike.  Lily and Gajeel leaned back, awed by the display, and already she was working on her next move, having halted the attack with a gaping crater and spooked horses that the soldiers now struggled to rein back in.  

“ _ Now _ can we get out of here?” Lily urged, just as Levy turned to face them.  

“Yes,” she answered for them breathlessly, earning raised, skeptical brows.

Her gazed flicked between the two, like she was trying to work something out, before she walked confidently towards Gajeel.  Her right hand pivoted in circles, like trying to spin an invisible wheel.  The Witcher stood rooted, unsure what the mage intended to do, ignoring the words of his friend.  A shock of a different kind coursed through him as she reached out and laid her hand, the one not twirling, on his chest.  “Didn't think we'd meet again so soon, Black Steel,” she offered him a slow smile. Her eyes met his, that blazing gold still burning at the center of her irises, and he found himself unable to move.  Immeasurable intensity, with a dose of fear.

Words failed Gajeel still, but he tore his gaze away from her to look beyond her as the remaining soldiers rounded up to continue their advance around their fallen comrades.

When he looked away, when he was distracted as she had hoped for, Levy extended her spinning hand to the side, swinging it round in a large circle.  At that moment, a gaping, orange portal opened directly next to her, and an invisible force drew her in.  She smirked up at the Witcher, now tightly gripping the sword strap over his chest.  Gajeel’s attention flew to her, eyes wide.  “W-wait, hold on!” Instinctively he reached for her, as Lily reflexively held firm to his friend’s arm, and all three flew through the mouth of the portal, disappearing from the camp entirely.


	3. Chapter 3

Gajeel coughed in surprise as he fell, face first, into the grass.  His hands searched quickly, frantically, for… well he didn’t know what he was reaching for.  One moment he had been in the refugee camp and the next he was swallowed up into a black malestrom. The tug of the sorceress on his chest had disappeared at some point, and he found his stomach in his throat, all senses caught in a headspin with nothing to hold onto.

Then he was on solid ground, somewhere completely different.  He could count on one hand how many times he had gone through portals in the past, and as he rolled over, gasping for air, he remembered why he had sworn to never do it again the last time.  If he could help it.

“Lily!” Gajeel called out gruffly as he pushed himself upright and sheathed his steel blade on his back.  There was no reply at first, then he heard branches snapping and another loud thud… followed by very familiar groaning.

“Bloody… sorceresses!” he heard his friend curse from somewhere in the nearby wood, and moments later the older Witcher stumbled out, trying to get his bearings back.  He staggered and fell sideways against a tree, swallowing hard.  “What… the  _ hell _ , happened back there?” Lily growled at his friend, who remained on the ground.  Far more affected by the portal than he. 

Gajeel shook his head, just as baffled.  He opened his mouth to reply, but sounds elsewhere drew his attention. 

“I’m sorry,” the blue-haired mage emerged, her only dishevelment being that which had already been given to her at the camp, but exhaustion was clear on her face.  The Witchers could barely see her sides moving--heaving--under the slightly baggy tunic.  She pushed some hair from her face and leaned forward to pat some dust from her soft leather trousers, which comfortably hugged her legs.  “It would have been a smoother ride but I was in a hurry, and I’m not used to teleporting others with me…”  The mage trailed off, something else bothering her.  It shouldn’t have been that hard for her, but her last ditch attack and teleport had taken a substantial amount of stamina from her.

“We would have rathered you didn’t,” Lily remarked, and Gajeel was halfway inclined to agree with him.

Levy shot him a look, “Oh I’m sorry, I generally assume that people would rather not be stuck in the situation you were.  I recall you being quite vocal about leaving it.”

“It seems we were only in it because of you,” Lily replied, “Either Radovid has gotten bolder or he just wants you so badly that he’d send troops into Nilfgaardian territory for you.  With no promise the Black Ones would even let them back out.”

The mage was quiet for a moment, averting her gaze.  That thought had come to her the moment she heard they were coming for her.  And while she wanted to believe the Redanians were reckless, she wasn’t foolish enough to settle on that answer.  There were parties on both sides of the war that sought to benefit from capturing the remaining members of the Lodge, and the only logical answer was that there had to have been some kind of deal struck, with her as a prize or bargaining chip.

“You’re in the Lodge, aren’t you?” Lily pressed, scrutinizing her.  Gajeel’s gaze flicked between the two; he had come to the same conclusion after he met her the first time, but it was on a hunch.  Lily had been given much more evidence. “There’s no other reason why the troops would bother with a mage so far south.”

“There is no Lodge anymore,” Levy replied, tight lipped and even-toned.   _ And there won’t be anyone left of it at this rate.  If they know where I am… that I’m still alive… _

The older witcher huffed and crossed his arms, but Gajeel took a hard step forward.  “Back down, Lil,” Gajeel finally found his words, pulling himself to his feet and dusting off his dark armor as he glanced around them.  “The real question right now is, where are we?”

Levy, lifted out of her thoughts, looked to Gajeel now.  “Somewhere near Mulbrydale.  I tried to get us as far north as possible but, you two are heavy,” she smiled, a tiny offering to the tension between the three.  It did little.

The two Witchers glanced to each other, incredulously, and the first thing Lily could think to say was, “My horse.”

There was a beat of silence before the sorceress rolled her eyes, “That’s your concern?”  By the look on Gajeel’s face, he agreed.  

“A good horse is hard to come by.  And oursare the best,” Gajeel replied, “Mine can outrun a pack of wolves easy.”  Lily nodded quickly, knowing his own horse had equal talents.  Both were thoroughbred and they had acquired them as rewards from different contracts years past.

Levy crinkled her nose and stood back from the two.  She didn’t know what she had expected after bothering to help the them, but she was more than used to the scrutiny against sorceresses.  She had hoped with the equal discrimination and ghost stories about Witchers that they might have been more open to her.  However, none of that mattered in the end, because she had managed to escape the threat for now, but was faced with a new challenge.  “So you will go back for them?”

“ _ I _ will,” Lily responded, glancing to Gajeel as though he expected him to answer differently.  “We failed quite miserably at the camp, I would prefer to not have lost everything today.”  What he didn’t say was that he wished to see if anyone had survived, and if the area could be rebuilt in any way.  The older Witcher studied the small mage for a moment, before finally sighing.  “Thank you.  For pulling us out of there.”  It was a reluctant offering, but he couldn’t in good conscience not thank her.  But it was clear to him that she was far more trouble than it was worth, and with that he turned to leave, and beckoned Gajeel to follow him.  The black-haired Witcher did not move immediately, still studying the mage.  

He wanted to say more to her, to stay, to ask if she was alright, but he had no reason to.  He had every reason to leave with Lily.  And after a moment, he loosed a breath and started to turn.

“Wait,” Levy said, before realizing.   _ I can’t go back.  I knew I would only be able to stay there for a short time but… now it’s different.  They know it was me.  They know I didn’t die that day. _  She looked to them both, knowing which one would be more agreeable already.  “Another contract.”

Both paused, lifting their brows.  Gajeel glanced to Lily, then back to her.  There might be the reason.  

“You’re not gonna go back to Midcopse after what happened; so what’ve you got to pay with?” Gajeel asked.

The woman sighed, knowing secrecy did her little good at this point.  “Midcopse was not my only home, and it was not where I kept all my belongings.  I brought some of my books with me, but I have kept the rest of my property hidden elsewhere, with a friend.  Along with the rest of my money.  I can pay more than I did for the Fiend.”

Gajeel looked to Lily, who still looked skeptical.  But, with their last venture failing so spectacularly, it might not hurt.  “What is the contract?” Gajeel asked, looking more interested than he might have intended.

“I need to get to my friend in Novigrad,” she said simply. “And I need an escort.”

“Why not teleport then?  You’re quite good with that,” Lily queried, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

Levy sighed, “Because I don’t have the strength.  Getting us out here drained a lot from me and I need to save my energy,” she paused, neglecting to mention that her magic felt very different.   _ Did they feed me something?  As a backup plan?  _  “Especially if I am going to try to get into the city,” she finished.  She could figure out the ‘what’ later, but she needed to get to the city first.

“And your friend is…?” Lily asked, his tone loaded.  He already had an idea: another member of the Lodge.  Levy did not answer him, which gave him the confirmation he needed.  “I’d rather not get--”

“I’ll do it.” 

Both Levy and Lily looked to Gajeel quickly, who looked completely resolved to his decision.  Levy smiled, an air of relief on her face, but Lily quickly stepped up to his friend and took him by the shoulder.  “Are you sure?” he whispered, “Gajeel, you do not want to be between the Lodge and this war.”

The black-haired Witcher met his gaze, yellow eyes glimmering, “I’m sick of not sleepin’,” he replied, tone equally low.  Lily lifted his bows, understanding what he meant.  

Those dreams had plagued him for weeks, and in every one it seemed like she was calling out to him.  Trying to reach him.  And then he finds her trapped in that camp?  He hated the idea of fate, or anything of that nature, but there was something that had brought him to her; twice.  The least he could do was see this contract through.

“Then it is yours.  I’ll return for our horses, and to see what’s left of the camp.  I’ll meet up with you eventually,” Lily said, before looking to the mage, “Best of luck to you.”  She couldn’t tell if he was being sincere, but he shot a look of ‘be careful’ to his friend, before turning from them both. 

Levy watching him leave, then looked to Gajeel, “Thank you.  I know it is not a small request, nor is it… what you usually do.”

“It’s a contract,” Gajeel shrugged.  It was more than that, he could feel that it was more than that.  But he had only met her twice, and he was now bound by his word to provide her safe passage.

Levy raised her hand in front of her face, before sweeping it downward.  The filth of her imprisonment disappeared from her clothing, but she didn’t bother to heal her minor injuries.  Over her shoulders a large, navy blue cloak appeared, fastened over the neckline of her yellow tunic with a wing-shaped broach.  She wavered slightly, loosing a breath,  _ I could feel even that...when it should be nothing. _  She reached up and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head; she needed to at least try to hide her identity on the way and she wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.  

“We should be able to secure a horse in Mulbrydale,” Gajeel remarked, trying not to stare, “Novigrad is a long way on foot.”

She didn’t love the idea, knowing how much the poor village already struggled, but nodded slowly.  “I’ll leave that to you.”

* * *

“Did you at least pay for it?”

“I’m a Witcher not a degenerate.  I don’t actually like stealing from the poor; of course I paid for it,” Gajeel replied from behind her.  The village was slowly fading from view behind them as the horse ambled down the dirt path.  The Witcher did the best he could to ignore how close they were, with the small sorceress somehow fitting into the saddle in front of him.  He could still smell the lavender on her.

Levy sighed, keeping her spine stiff to avoid touching him as much as possible, but it wasn’t entirely avoidable, as their thighs brushed against one another.  “Was there… not a second horse?”

“It was their last one.  They wouldn’t sell it.”  He understood what she implied with the question, and he too would have preferred a second mount, if not for propriety then at least for comfort.  Sitting so stiffly for the both of them was not an ideal way to spend a trip of any length.

Levy didn’t answer him, and kept her eyes ahead.  The road was empty except for the occasional traveller, who barely deigned them with a glance.  Too many of their own troubles to deal with.  There had been no signs of her pursuers.  But she knew the farther North they got, the less that would ring true.  She was headed into the enemy territory for the sake of a friend.  Hopefully more than one.  If she had kept her megascope, she could have tried to reach them that way, but it was ultimately too risky to have something like that in Midcopse.  The books were a danger enough; she would lament the loss of those, but at least the most valuable of her grimoires were in Novigrad.  

At least, she hoped so.  She hadn’t heard from any of the Lodge since Levy had left Novigrad behind.  Some even long before then; there were those who refused to speak to them to avoid drawing any more attention, and then those who just… disappeared entirely.  The witch hunts had gained such traction with Radovid’s underhanded encouragement and the Church of the Eternal Fire had surged to power and reverence that kept everyone of their kind in hiding.  The mages were a dying race.  

Though Levy had some illusions under her belt, she did not have the skill for polymorphy that her friend had; it made sense for her to at least try to stay behind in Novigrad, but not Levy.  She felt she could do more good in the swamps, where people suffered out of sight.

“What’s the real reason ya can’t get yourself to the city?  Did well enough back in the camp,” the Witcher broke the tense silence again. He could see her shoulders slump a little, but when she brushed against his chest, she sat straight again.

“What I did at the camp was all I had left, and it should have been more.  Dimeritium shackles alone don’t have such lasting effects; I suspect they were feeding me something to keep me weak,” she paused, “It should be temporary, I don’t know of anything that will last more than a few days.”

_ They were poisoning her then.  In case she was strong enough to get out of the shackles. _  He’d heard of it before, mages who were powerful enough to bypass the effects of dimeritium.  Did they think she could have been that powerful?  Time would have to show, but they had a different objective to focus on.  “Do you have a plan for getting into Novigrad?  Or across the bridge?  The border station is not far off,” Gajeel broke her from her thoughts.

Levy shifted uncomfortably in her seat, “I had not planned to head back so soon.  I don’t have it all worked out, but I do know that there are always those we can secure passes from ahead of the bridge.  And just hope that word of my escape hasn’t spread this far yet.”  The Redanians had taken over the most accessible crossing over the Pontar, and she already knew the border post would be their first hurdle.  The Redanians vetted everyone that crossed through, and these days you needed passes to get across the river.  Once they got that far, getting to her friend’s residence in Novigrad would be the easy part. Hopefully. 

Gajeel sighed, wondering now why he had agreed to this.  “Ya know, if this is the kind of contract that involves me fighting tooth and nail all the way t’ Novigrad, that’s extra.”

Levy laughed a little then, turning her head to peek over her shoulder from beneath the hood.  “While I appreciate the implication that you  _ would _ , I don’t expect that of you.  Rest assured.  Just because I don’t have a full plan does not mean I am incapable.”  She was talking away her doubts as much as she was his.  “I will get us across the border, and into the city.  If we run into any complications, that is where you come in.”

Gajeel hummed the affirmative after a moment, and heeled the sides of the grey mare to urge her forward.  “Why would your friend choose Novigrad of all places?  Why not Kovir?  Or anywhere but the heart of the witch hunts.”

The mage was quiet for a moment, her words stalled by long practiced secret guarding.  “I thought Witchers were supposed to be the quiet type,” she elected to tease first.

“Rumor,” he quipped with a small smirk. 

She smiled slightly, “She wanted to help people.  In defiance of the now infamous Pyres of Novigrad--” she gestured in front of her to try and mime them, ”--she was convinced she could smuggle people out.  Doing that and keeping hold of all our effects, despite the danger, is a smack in the face to the witch hunters.”  The sorceress paused for a moment, and sighed heavily, “A life of hiding can very quickly lose all its meaning unless you do something about it.”

Gajeel had no reply for that, and instead took note of the fact that the landscape had started to change.  He had been through this way before multiple times, but had since lost his previous passes.  Still, he recognized the change; the closer they got to the Redanian station, the fewer trees were left standing.  Many had been cut down for their wood, and primarily cleared out for sentries to see all who came long before they reached the bridge.  For him, trying to smuggle a sorceress across the border, it was non-ideal.  

But as she had predicted, there were already many people mulling about the road leading up to the bridge.  A small line of travellers ahead of them waited to get through, and the people on the side of the road were clearly trying to talk to them.  The Redanians never seemed to notice or, if they did, care that the passes were being traded.   _ Bigger fish to fry, _ he thought, scooting back from her a little.  She glanced back at him as he placed his palms on the saddle in the space he had made, and with perfect ease swung one leg back over the rear of the horse to dismount.

He grabbed the reins and walked the horse the rest of the way, taking his time and looking to each individual in front of of him.  

“Witcher,” Levy piped up, quietly.

Gajeel glanced up to her, seeing now that the hair beneath her hood was a dull brown.   _ Smart, _ he thought, before following the inclination of her head to a lanky man standing to the side of the road. His garb was simple enough, worn cotton with some red trim that fit fairly loosely over a thin, but sinewy frame.  A leather belt slung over his hips held a square pouch to his side, over which he kept a hand rested as casually as possible.  Russet eyes watched the passersby more attentively than others, passing over those who looked like they already had the papers they needed.  

The Witcher nodded, keeping his eyes on the man while continuing to proceed forward.  Soon enough, his eyes met Gajeel’s, and a satisfied smile tugged at the thin corners of his mouth.  

“Bound for Novigrad?” he asked, tilting his head ever so slightly.  “You look like you’ve traveled far, you may have a look at my wares if you are in need of supplies.” 

_ Posing as a merchant.  That’s one way to do it, _ the Witcher remarked to himself.  He had opened his mouth to reply, but a small vibration around his neck stole his words.  The Witcher did not move as his muscles coiled beneath his armor.  He did not reach for his humming medallion, but instead watched the man in front of him with an ounce more of attentiveness.  He could not look him over without being obvious, therefore just kept his gaze on the merchant’s seemingly human face, the only abnormality being the dark skin lining his eyes.

“Yes, we have run low on what we need to make it the rest of the way,” Levy had spoken up in his silence, taking hold of the conversation.

“Excellent,” the merchant replied, opening his pouch and pulling two slips of parchment from it.  “You’ll not find better quality anywhere else.”

_ He’s good.  The facade comes easy, _ Gajeel thought.   _ Medallion wouldn’t hum for a doppler, means it might be a charm or illusion.  Could just be in hiding.  Could also be something else. _  Whatever he was, he was intelligent, and his illusion, polymorphy, or charm was solid.  But not solid enough in the way a doppler or even high vampire might escape the sensitivities of his pendant.

As though picking up on his train of thought, the merchant flicked his eyes to the Witcher, and ever so slowly trailed his gaze down to the wolf medallion. “Exquisite work, that is,” he commented, his words conspicuously loaded, “Only ever seen one other like it,” he added, visibly fighting his own smirk.  Gajeel had started to prickle, fingers oh-so-tempted to reach for his silver, when Levy bounced a little in her saddle.

“How much,” Levy interrupted, anxious to secure their passage and move on.  She did not know the origin of the tension but with Redanians so close, it was not something she wanted to stall with.  “For the supplies?” she clarified.

“Nothing,” he answered quickly, looking up to her.

“Horseshit,” Gajeel growled, already on edge.  “If they’re free we don’t want ‘em.”

“Wait,” Levy interjected, trying to keep her voice down, “Don’t mind my brutish friend.  Surely there is something that can be used as payment.”

“My apologies.  It seems I don’t speak quickly enough.  Nothing at this time.  But in this profession… you never forget a face.  And I frequent Novigrad for my own supplies.  I am sure I will see you again, you may repay me another day.”  The merchant held out the papers to Gajeel, who sniffed and scrutinized them.  “Call me an advocate for the unorthodox. We need to stick together,” he winked devilishly, ”so for now I only request you two continue as you have, together.  Defiance is the best resistance.”

The Witcher may have been entirely distrusting of this, but Levy leaned over in the saddle and took the papers from him.  “Deepest thanks,” she offered pleasantly, “and we will.”

Something unreadable flickered across his eyes and then was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. “Safe travels to you both, and mind the Pyres,” the merchant offered a bow of his head, flicking his gaze between the two of them before ambling back the way they had come, seeking out other ‘customers.’

Gajeel tensely led the horse forward, tracking how much distance he put between them, and waited for his medallion to calm before speaking.  “It was stupid to take those,” he finally growled, low enough for only her to hear.  

“It would have been worse not to,” Levy replied with equal seriousness in her tone.  She wasn’t dense, she saw what he saw in the man’s demeanor.  “A problem for another day.  And as I was the one who agreed, a problem for me.  You only need to mind your current contract.”

“Lots of beings in this world that can strike deals without you knowin’.  Tie themselves to ya,” he pressed. 

Levy was quiet for a beat, intentionally keeping her eyes away from him.  “I’ve seen him before.”

The Witcher swung his gaze up to her, his expression demanding an explanation he did not dare to say out loud. 

“I wasn’t sure until we got closer, but he has been to Midcopse before. Came through about a year ago.  He sells magical artifacts and paraphernalia, and he does business in his own way while facing his own risks,” she replied. “Making friends with non-humans and magic-users is good business.”

“And he looked like that?”

“Yes now hush, and take the passes,” Levy shoved them down towards him to quiet him as they approached the bridge, and automatically two soldiers arranged themselves to stop them.  

“Your papers,” one of them ordered.  He sounded like he’d already been doing it for hours, and took the offered slips from Gajeel.  He looked them over, and Levy watched his expression for anything out of the ordinary.  Anything that would set them off.  “What’s your business?”

“Contract,” Gajeel replied calmly. 

The guard looked to him now, studying him, and lifted his brows when he caught sight of the yellow eyes.  There was a glimmer of disapproval, but he seemed to understand.  A Witcher needed no other excuse, least of all one so well known.  He glanced to Levy next.  “And the girl?”

“Part of the contract,” he replied as the guard quirked a brow, “Retrieving a wealthy merchant’s daughter.”  The Redanians stared at them both, taking note of the hooded woman’s split lip, the bruise that had blossomed on her jawline.  It was plausible, but a glance between the two of them still held doubt.

There was a heavy moment before the guard finally spoke up again, and in that moment Gajeel’s medallion pulsed again.  Only once, and then it went silent.  “All appears in order,” the guard said, his tone clipped.  The second guard’s face had gone blank.  Gajeel blinked as they stepped aside, opening the way for them to head across the bridge.  

The Witcher only nodded and tugged the horse forward with him.  It looked like they were actually going to get through the post without setting off the whole camp, and he wasn’t going to second guess that.  Not until they were in the clear.  

The first bridge connected to a small islet in the middle of the Pontar where more of the soldiers had gathered.  But thankfully, they were occupied with their own business, with the guards at the head of the bridge taking care of any of the through traffic.  Still, Levy sat stiff in the saddle, focused on the travellers that were in front of them.   _ Follow them, we are travellers just the same, _ she told herself.  Eyes forward.

It felt like an eternity of passing by the red cloaks and flags,  The white eagle spread across the banner threatened her; watched her.  She felt like she held her breath the whole time, and she might have, because her lungs were burning by the time they crossed the second bridge and left the station behind.

Levy released her tension in one breath and slumped her shoulders.  “That went smoother than expected,” she remarked, breathlessly.

“It might not have if ya hadn’t cast that charm,” Gajeel replied.  The guard had looked ready to interrogate her moments before his medallion responded to the magic presence, and he let them through.

Levy looked to him, a blue curl peeking out from the hood again as she removed the small illusion. She assumed he meant her hair.  “A simple trick.  But effective,” she replied, looking forward.  In the haze over the horizon, she could see the towers of Novigrad, as plumes of black smoke swirled their way into the sky above, and she swallowed down her nerves.

* * *

Every gate leading into Novigrad was always full of activity.  And it was where the first witch hunters could be seen, milling about, watching the people who came in and out.  Today was no different, and she felt a wave of deja vu crash over her.  It had been so long since she had been to the city, but somehow here she was again.  And everything had changed.

Levy was glad to not be heading through them, and Gajeel had been confused when she directed them elsewhere.  She reached out and placed her hand over his, pulling the reins to their left.  It took everything in him to dismiss the flutter in his chest as she did so, and he instead turned his attention to the district they now headed for.

Farcorners was the largest district in Novigrad, sprawling across green farmland outside the walls of the city itself.   _ Ah, that makes far more sense, _ he thought.  It was safer here for non-humans, and he’d known of mages to hide here as well.  The witch hunters, for now, focused their activity inside the city, and there was a small chance to keep a low profile in this area.

Levy took charge of directing them through the paths between houses, before finally stopping in front of a two story home near the center of the district.  “This is it,” she muttered, and Gajeel dismounted the horse as he had before.  He extended a hand to her and she looked at it a moment, before finally taking it to help herself down.

The mage took steady steps to the door and knocked quickly.  It took several moments before the door opened, revealing a taller man with glasses, and wild, orange hair.  He looked first to Gajeel, who admittedly stood out a little more than the small woman at his side.  “Can I he--” the words cut off when he looked finally to Levy, who had lifted her hand to pull back her hood just slightly.  She said nothing, but looked expectantly to the man.  She hadn’t seen this one before, and needed to be sure before she fully gave herself away.

Like a ripple over still water, the image of the red-head flickered and nearly lost it’s form for a split second as his eyes went wide, mouth hanging open.  “ _ Levy?! _ ” he gasped, his voice taking on a suddenly more female pitch.  Levy answered with a tiny smile.  He looked around quickly and beckoned both of them inside.  “Get in here…!” he urged, closing the door behind them.  The second it clicked shut, the image of the man melted away… and instead reformed into a very surprised blonde woman, looking like she had a million questions on the tip of her tongue.

“Oh Lucy, you have no idea how happy I am to see you.”


	4. Chapter 4

 

“What on earth are you doing here?” Lucy asked urgently, ushering them both into the common room.  She cast more than one questioning glance at the large Witcher, who looked profoundly out of place in the quaint home.  He remained quiet, looking to the area around them before studying the blonde in her blue dress.  An expensive, ornate gold necklace sat over her collarbone, glimmering in the ambient light, and a ring of braided hair laid across the top of her head, from which a cascade of long golden hair rained.  She  _ looked _ like a sorceress, with her tight enough and low enough gown.  And clearly one with gifts in polymorphy.  It explained why she managed to live in a place like  _ this. _

“I’m so sorry to drop in on you like this, I know how dangerous it is,” Levy began, but Lucy waved it off.  “I needed to see if you were alright, and I had no other way to reach you.”

Lucy’s expression darkened just a fraction in anticipation of the real reason she was here as she settled on a chaise across from where her friend sat on the small cushioned sofa.  The Witcher took up post at the edge of the room, arms crossed.  “Things have gotten worse, the pyres burn daily now.  But I’m no worse off, no one suspects me yet,” she tilted her head, lifting a slender brow at her friend, and the large man, “Certainly nothing bad enough to warrant worry or a visit… with a bodyguard.  I don’t hate seeing you again, Levy but… really, why have you come?”  The worry in her voice was evident, knowing something must have happened to bring her friend to her, with a Witcher.

“I was found,” Levy said, staring at her hands.  Lucy straightened immediately, “I was captured rather, in a refugee camp, and they kept me in Dimeritum, feeding me  _ something _ to keep me down until a Redanian company arrived,” she paused, lifting a weighted gaze at her friend, “in Velen.  Unimpeded.  If they know I’m still alive, we are all in danger.  I needed to reach you, and be sure you were still safe.  And I need to try and use my megascope to reach the others.  Radovid is planning something, and somehow he’s involved the Emperor in it.  If they are cooperating then…”

“Our days of hiding are limited,” Lucy finished, finally settling her gaze on the quiet observer.  “And him?  Is he how you escaped?”

“Partially,” Levy answered.

“Name’s Gajeel,” he finally spoke up, waving a single finger.

Lucy looked surprised as her eyes went immediately to the twin swords on his back, recognizing the name, “So not just any Witcher.  One with a reputation.”

“I needed to get here and I couldn’t teleport more than the one time to get us out,” Levy clarified, “so an escort was needed.”

Lucy looked thoughtful for a second, before getting up to head for a large shelf, full of bottles and vials of varying size.  “Some of the witch hunters have figured out how to process Dimeritium further, grind it into a powder fine enough it can be added into food in small amounts.  Add more than a small pinch, and you’ll taste it.  But a pinch that small isn’t enough to do much.  So they must have given it over... many days,” she glanced back at Levy, her words slowing down when she started to realize the conditions she may have been in.  “It’s not permanent but it will systemically dampen your magic.  I have something I can give you to counteract it, but you won’t be one hundred percent until it fully leaves your system,” the blonde explained returning to her friend with a bottle. “Drink the whole thing.”

Levy nodded, pulling out the cork and downing the contents without a second thought.  She winced at the bitterness.  “Have you been able to reach anyone?  Is there anyone I can try to communicate with?” she asked after the taste had subsided.

Lucy looked to her feet, taking a seat again.  “You haven’t heard anything?” the blonde asked, tentatively.  Her friend’s face was her answer.  “Oh, okay. Well ah… Mira has done the best of us really, she took your route.  She’s the only one I’ve been able to reach reliably, she’s in White Orchard as a healer.  They like her there.”

“Sounds about right,” Levy mused with a small smile.

“Last I heard Juvia was with the druids in Skellige, but she refuses to talk to me.  I was able to contact her once, months ago, I think she only did it as a courtesy to me.  To let me know she was okay.  But after everything, after the summit, she never wants to see us again.”

Levy stirred uncomfortably at the mention of the summit-turned-massacre.  She couldn’t blame her for it, not after all the horrors of that day; a day that was supposed to end with treaties.  They all barely escaped with their lives, and she had needed to think fast to ensure she could maintain her escape.  It took some quick creativity and several inches of her hair, but she had managed to be among the reported dead that day, a convenient advantage.  But at some point someone had figured out the truth, and drove her out.   _ So much for that. _  “And Erza?”

The blonde’s shoulders slumped, and it took a moment for her to answer.  “I don’t know.  The last word I got of her was nearly a year ago.  She was trying to work with the Nilfgaardians, advise them on enchanted weaponry to give an upper hand in the war.  They had offered her protection and immunity in exchange.  Her last contact with me,” Lucy paused, looking deeply troubled, “She reached me through her megascope, she was urgent.  She’d found out they had no intention of giving what they promised, and after they got enough information from her they were going to use her in negotiations with the Redanians.  She said she would tell me more when she reached me, or reached another megascope, that the Redanians had some plans for ‘us.’  Last anyone saw her, she was fleeing Vizima; now both sides want her.”

“I suspect she never made it here. And no one has seen her since?” Levy asked, already knowing the answer. 

“We don’t know if she’s dead or alive, and I’ve tried divination.  Nothing works.  She’s completely blocked.”

“She knew how to disrupt divinations to stay out of sight,” Levy commented, “It’s possible it may be intentional?”  Hope was evident in her voice.

Lucy nodded slowly, “I’d thought of that.  It’s the only thing that brings me comfort while I search for more information.  I have one, ah, contact in the city, who gets me whisperings now and then.  But I can’t see him often.”

The shorter mage was quiet for several moments, looking to her lap.  Erza’s disappearance disturbed her greatly, and the fact that the two sides of the war had cooperated already on  _ another _ occasion, with the purpose of obtaining another Lodge sorceress, was a problem.  Levy’s was not an isolated incident and Erza Scarlet was arguably the strongest among them, barring when someone poked Mirajane’s wild temper.  It could be possible that someone had their hands on Erza, or had already disposed of her.  But Levy couldn’t shake the nagging thought that she and Erza had very deliberately been left alive.  Previously the prices on their heads had been dead or alive: why not kill Erza when she was in the palace?  Why not kill  _ her _ as soon as she was discovered alive rather than waiting for the Redanians?

Levy looked up, ready to reply to her, when the Witcher cleared his throat.

“Sorry to interrupt your little reunion but I got ya here.  Now unless there’s some fine print, that’s the end of my contract.”  He wasn’t in a particular rush to get away from her, but he’d done what he was employed to and he had no more reason to stay.  And the longer he stayed, the longer he risked getting tangled in something he shouldn’t.  Clearly something intricate was afoot with the two of them and the rest of them, and it wasn’t something he was sure he wanted to be a part of.

Levy rose, looking slightly abashed.  She had all but forgotten he was there, and he was right.  It was time she pay him, even if she didn’t know what she was going to do now.  “Yes, of course,” she said, glancing to Lucy, “Are all my things still upstairs?”

The blonde nodded quickly, “It’s all where you left it, in the guest room.”

The blue-haired mage nodded to her friend, and beckoned the Witcher to follow her up the narrow stairway.  Gajeel kept his head lowered slightly, grumbling internally at the low ceilings.  She pushed open a door with a loud creak, entering a large room that was filled, floor to ceiling on all four walls, with books.  Two large chests were nestled amongst them to the left, and in the center of the room were the three posts of her megascope.  

Gajeel stopped in the doorway, not even remotely surprised by what he saw within.  She wasn’t joking when she said she had more belongings here.  

The mage went straight to the chests, pushing one open with another creak and he leaned forward to try and peek inside.  He could see piles of clothing, but not much else until she dug in and pulled out a few coin-purses.  Gajeel lifted his brows, watching her peek into each one and weigh them out in her hands, until she picked one of the larger ones and buried the rest within.

She stood to face him resolutely, presenting the Witcher with the pouch.  “Your pay.” She didn’t look at him, and her tone was detached.

Gajeel tilted his head slightly, taking the coin from her.   _ She’s distracted. _  “What will you do now?” he asked carefully.

Levy slumped her shoulders, unsure how to answer.  “Frankly, I don’t know.  I have work to do here.  I need to… look into some things.”  She glanced around the room, at the familiarity of her books and equipment, before looking to him.  “And you, Witcher?  Will you seek out your friend?  Your horse?” she smiled, tilting her head a little.

Gajeel nodded, “Eventually.  I have a mount for now, I ain’t in a hurry.  Follow the Path; I’ll meet up with him sooner or later.”

“You sure you want to leave so soon?  We came a long way.  I’m sure Lucy would not mind if you stayed for a meal or a night of rest,” Levy offered, sounding more hopeful than she intended.

Reluctantly, the Witcher shook his head, “I appreciate it but I got a hell of a cravin’ for some beer, and I know some folk in town I hope to see at the Rosemary.” See, brawl with, get into some kind of competition.  The Rosemary and Thyme was one of the few taverns he had not been banned from… yet anyway.

Levy nodded, understanding, tilting her head to the side.  She wanted to ask him to stop by before he left the city, that she wanted to see him again.  But she didn’t know him, and as much as it seemed nice, she had something much bigger to worry about now.  Still, “Thank you, Gajeel.  I appreciate your help.”

The Witcher huffed in acknowledgment, not one too skilled with goodbyes.  “Just business, Shorty,” he smirked toothily, watching her prickle with annoyance as just a hint of static tickled his skin. She stomped towards him, and he moved aside to presumably let her out of the room. But instead, she stopped in front of him and stood there a moment, glaring up at the man for several moments with fire in her eyes. But after a few seconds of silently staring at one another, she softened just slightly. 

Levy rose as far up on tiptoe as she could, and kissed him on his scruffy cheek.  The Witcher’s eyes went wide, and he felt a literal shock fly through him as he jolted back against the doorframe.  He stared, slack-jawed at her as she dropped back down and smiled at him with great satisfaction. “It’s been a pleasure to have met you, Black Steel,” she said, turning from him with a flick of her hair before the color reached her cheeks, and descended down the stairs.  

Gajeel stalled for a moment, blinking wordlessly in her wake.  He flexed his hands over and over for what felt like forever after she disappeared at the bottom of the stairs, and the voices of the two women floated up to him.  He shook his head, rubbed his still tingling cheek, and headed down the stairs to see himself out.

* * *

The Witcher pushed open the door to the loud tavern and inhaled deeply.  The smell of smoke, alcohol, and sweat.  It was always busy, day or night, and had changed completely from the last time he was here.  The Rosemary and Thyme had been a fairly young business the last few times he had been, and the very last time was not… his best.  Now the establishment was in full swing.

He smirked to himself, heading up to the bar and taking at seat at one of the stools.  The tavern-owner had her back to him, organizing the bottles on the shelf behind the bar, completely unaware that he had shown up.  

“Oi, Alberona,” he called out to her, and she nearly dropped the bottle of vodka in her hands.  Nearly.  The woman would never waste good liquor.  

The brunette whirled to face him, eyes wide.  “Gods above!  If it isn’t Black Steel himself!” she exclaimed, her surprise very quickly turning sour.  “I hope you have my damned money this time, I’m still trying to pay for the repairs!” she hissed, glancing to the wall to their left, shoddily boarded up.

“Good to see ya too, Cana.”  Gajeel followed her gaze and grinned, puffing up with a touch of pride.  “That fucker deserved it, and you know it,” the Witcher retorted, before leaning to the side to dig into the pouch at his side.  He produced the coin purse the sorceress had given him and opened it slightly before sliding it towards her.  “Take whatever’ll cover the repairs and a night’s worth of Kaedweni.  In my favorite stein if ya still got it.”

“You mean if the pyro hasn’t melted it down?” Cana replied, still staring at the coin purse in front of her before she snatched it to keep it from the eyes of anyone else Gajeel might have to toss through a wall.  “Been busy have you?  What sorta contract landed you this?” she commented, before handing the rest of it back to him.

“Nothing special,” he shrugged.  “Simple escort.”

“Mhm, right,” she replied, reaching under the bar to produce the pewter stein with the iron handle.  She had only just started to pour when a familiar voice boomed through the tavern.

“ _ Metalhead!” _

A look of ‘oh no’ flashed across Cana’s face as a wicked grin spread on Gajeel’s.  

Aside from the loud voice, the hum of his wolf amulet also announced the presence of the newcomer.  “Salamander!”  The Witcher spun around on his stool and leaned back against the bar to acknowledge the rosy-haired man that had just arrived.  Soot dusted his face and coated his arms, and Gajeel couldn’t figure out if he was wearing a black tunic or if it used to be another color.  The black was an even layer over his pulled-back hair, only allowing flashes of the rosy pink to show through.  The only thing missing was his blacksmith’s apron.  “Fresh from the forges, eh?”

“You got a  _ lot _ of nerve showin’ back up here after last time,” the man growled, taking a seat two stools down from the Witcher.  He glanced, pointedly, to the damaged wall.  “And don’t call me Salamander,” he warned, and Gajeel could have sworn a thread of smoke rose from the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t give me a reason or I’ll toss ya again, flame-brain,” Gajeel retorted, thinking quite fondly of his last visit.  When he had sent a very drunk blacksmith through the wall with an equally drunk casting of Aard.  He didn’t even remember what the man had said to piss him off, but Gajeel knew he deserved it.

“The fuck you will, cat-eyes,” Cana interjected, sliding the beer towards Gajeel, who twisted around to grab the handle.  She was already pouring one for the blacksmith in an attempt to placate him.  

Grumbling, Natsu took the offered drink and glared at the Witcher a moment longer before he broke out in a large smile and held up his own pint to clink against Gajeel’s.  Tension visibly left Cana’s body as she rolled her eyes at the two men before she went back to work.  “The hell you doin’ back in Novigrad?  City hasn’t exactly been the nicest place to be lately.  Looking for me to make you another masterpiece?”  He looked, pointedly, to the hilt of the steel sword on Gajeel’s back.

Gajeel took a large swing of the dark stout, sighing with heavy satisfaction.  “Contract,” he replied, “Caught in some Lodge business,” he added with a hushed tone.

Natsu nearly choked on his beer and held up a tattooed arm to his frothy mouth, trying to keep from spitting the cherry beer on his old friend.  “You what?” he asked, looking around them.  “That’s risky.”

The Witcher lifted a brow at his reaction.  “Had your own run-ins, eh?” he asked, looking at the right arm covered in black tangles of ink that trailed up farther than what his tunic covered.  “Still trying t’ figure that out?” he gestured with his beer before taking another swig.

Natsu grimaced, returning to his drink as well.  “Sorta.  I know someone in Farcorners.  We uh, help each other, she keeps an ear out for anything for this,” he looked to his arm, “and I have pretty good ears myself.”

Gajeel blinked, before laughing to himself at the coincidence, “Well shit.”

Natsu looked at him for a second, and without having to say it out loud they realized they were speaking about the same blonde sorceress.  “So you found your own.  Like I said, bad place to come.”

The Witcher looked into his beer, thinking of the blue-haired mage he’d left at the edge of witch hunter territory.  The one he was trying to purge from his thoughts with beer.  Maybe now that he had seen her again and helped her she would leave his dreams.  He couldn’t even say why he had dreamt about her in the first place, but with any luck alcohol would fix it.  “Don’t I know it.  But you seem to be doin’ fine for yerself.”

“Thank the damn sage who wrote such a convincing curse,” the blacksmith replied bitterly, swigging his Rivian beer.

“Eh, coulda done a better meat-suit,” Gajeel taunted with a smirk, tensing in case the fiery man decided to lash out.  Thankfully, it seemed the beer had already started to work to placate his friend’s combustible demeanor.  “So what  _ have _ ya heard?  I been sloughing through Velen for a few months, a little outta the loop.”

Natsu took a deep breath and looked upwards, arranging his thoughts before he looked around him again.  Yes, the Rosemary was a generally safe place; Cana worked very hard to only allow a certain kind of clientele, but it never hurt to be safe.  “The witch hunts are in full swing, Radovid keeps handing over coin and power to them and the temple guard.  The city’s a worse and worse place for people like us to be, and you brought your contract here at a bad time,” he warned, “A Nilfgaardian envoy was here a week ago, met with and left  _ alive _ from a council with Radovid’s advisers themselves.”

Gajeel raised his pierced brow in surprise, intrigued about the timing. “Ya know what about?”

The blacksmith shook his head, “Not at all.  Just happened to be at the docks when they showed up.”

“They?”

“It was strange.  The Nilfgaardian I coulda spotted a mile away.  But someone else arrived too, separate.  Dressed in common-clothes.  He wore no crest,” he explained.

Gajeel shifted, taking a few more gulps of his stout and savoring the warmth in his gut.  The pieces all lined up too coincidentally, except for the mystery visitor.  That was the one wild card.  He didn’t know exactly how long Levy had been in that camp, but he did know when the Redanians had showed up for her.  “His Highness still in port?”

“He is.”

“Any activity over the last couple days?”

Natsu glanced at him, wondering what exactly his friend knew, and where he was going with it.  “Yeah; some of his generals leaving in a hurry about four days ago.”

That was it.  There was the connection.  Gajeel narrowed his eyes before downing the rest of his beer.  He stared into the bottom of the pewter stein, and wondered how invested he cared to be in this information.  In the fact that the pieces lined up, and somehow it boiled down to the sorceress he had just delivered to King Radovid’s genocidal doorstep.  “I need another drink.”

* * *

“Wolves asleep amidst the trees… bats all a-swaying in the breeze...”

A singing voice, rough, edged with a higher pitch, rose above the bubbling river.  The moist soil sloshed beneath his worn boots, threatening to slow his pace.  But not quite as much as the struggling soldier, clawing at the black, nebulous layer over his face that kept him from making a sound beyond the strangled hums in his chest.  The tall merchant held the soldier by the back collar of his armor in a grip that dented the metal.

“But one soul lies anxious wide awake,” he flourished up a hand, dancing his fingers to the melody, “fearing all manner of ghouls, hags, and wraiths…”

The soldier kicked, trying to tear from the iron grip, and the singing stopped.

“Now now, don't interrupt,” the merchant’s rough, gravelly voice cooed, “It will be less comfortable if you keep struggling.”  He turned his head, focusing reddish brown eyes on the defiant prisoner.  He kicked and struggled, but he had far less life in him than before.  The soldier’s feet found no purchase, and he had been dragged far enough from any camp that none saw him.  Even along the banks of the Pontar, few people wandered this far and this close to water unless they sought a run-in with a Water Hag.

But the merchant attracted no such attention, in fact all life seemed to keep out of a very distinct radius from the thin man.  They traveled, uninterrupted, until the shoreline became rocky, rising up into a large outcropping over the bank.  He dragged the Redanian into a cave, ignoring the sudden fervor, the last bit of fight from his prisoner.  It wasn’t the fact they had arrived at such a secluded location that reawakened his panic.

It was the fact that when the Redanian looked up to the merchant to curse him wordlessly, he did not see the man from before.  He saw the leathery grey skin.  He saw the inhumanly wide grin that now bore fangs instead of teeth.  He saw the ram-like horns that curled from the sides of his skull and the long canine ears behind them.  And he saw the orange-red eyes glow in the shadows, turn upon him with mischievous malice.  He had the shape of a man, and yet was so very much not.

“‘Why am I here? What does it want with me?’” the creature spoke in a mocking tone, waving a free hand and brandishing black claws on each of his four fingers.  “‘Will I die here, oh no~,’” he continued, letting out a laugh that sounded like smacking two rocks together.  “The answer is yes, sorry,” he stated matter-of-factly, dropping the Redanian into the soil as they reached the back of the cave.  Small holes in the roof let in rays of light, revealing very little beyond a large stone reservoir, like the bottom of a fountain.  It was empty, but the carvings along its base were intricate and appeared very, very old.

The soldier, free of the demon’s grip, scrambled to get back to his feet, despite the black veil over his nose and mouth.  He barely made onto his elbows when a crushing force crashed down onto his back, forcing him face-first into the mud.  “Ah-ah, we can’t have that,” the male cautioned, pressing a large canine foot down onto the center of his back and poising a large black claw over the back of his neck.  Its tip brushed against the rise of a vertebra.  “I need you, mouse.  Or, rather, your life.  Cogs to turn, pots to stir,” he bobbed his head back and forth,  “Divinations and hydromancy are such fun tricks, but their style is so very bland.  So limited.  One can be… what's the word," he ran clawed fingers through his crest of black hair in thought, "so much more _creative_ with blood magic…”  

Understanding his life was about to end, his victim tried, to no avail, to get out from under the demon’s foot or to get away.   _Ah, I’m missing the best part of these things_ , he thought, suddenly snapping his fingers.  The black veil dissolved from the man’s face, and as soon as he realized his ability to speak, he turned his frantic words to his attacker.  “Who are you?!  You will regret attacking the Redanian army, freak!” he screamed, and the demon applied sudden, heavier pressure to his back as he coughed in pain. 

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.  I merely stole you, and none of your ‘army’ even noticed.   You are becoming part of something much bigger.  I might say this is the most important thing you’ve ever done, mouse,” he smiled, “But because you asked, you can take my name to the grave.”  He leaned forward towards the man, shadows befalling his face, “They call me Zink.”  With his final courtesy of words to the man, before he plunged his claws into the back of his neck.  The man struggled, screaming loud enough to echo through the cave, but the demon merely pressed down harder.  The backplate of his armor caved in with a crunch, and his claws sliced deeper into the man’s flesh, one slipping in between vertebrae.  The man went still, and the screaming died with guttural coughs.

As quickly as he had inflicted the damage, he eased off, only to grab him by the hair and lift him with relative ease.  He hauled the twitching corpse over to the stained stone bowl, holding the gushing wound over it such that a small pool of blood collected.  When he felt he had enough, he tossed the body aside like trash.   _I’ll feed it to the Drowners later._

The man muttered several words to himself as the blood rippled and moved, subtly at first, then more violently.  Zink gripped the edges of the vessel and leaned over it, some strands of black hair dangling over his brow as he stared into the blood.  It danced as though alive, and in it he slowly started to see the image of a small mage, accompanied by a blonde woman.  “Ah, two out of five,” he muttered, a devilish grin spreading across his angular face.  “And they all fall in line, one… by… one.”  Glowing orange eyes looked to the mouth of the cave, and that cracking laugh filled the space.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is 100% a filler/fanservice chapter that came from some jokes one a Witcher stream on Twitch, but I am desperate to get this story moving again so hopefully this is at the very least entertaining.

“By the way,” the rose-haired man drawled into his pint, slapping another card onto the table, “what the everloving hell are you wearing?  That is  _ not _ the armor I made for you.”  He gulped down the rest of his beer, looking Gajeel over with nothing short of disdain.

The Witcher scowled at the card the man had laid down and eased back in his chair.  He was at least six pints in, Natsu somehow ahead of him, and he couldn’t tell how long he had been here drinking.  Only that the streets outside were orange with the sunset.  Gajeel played his own card, and then looked back up to Natsu, who was waving over at Cana for a refill.  “Ran into an endrega nest, fucked up the polish.  Had to lift a new one,” he replied with a small shrug, slurring his words only slightly.  The prickle rippling through the blacksmith was just as satisfying as he’d expected.  “Ya wanna give me a new set, then be my guest.”

Natsu snorted, eagerly reaching for the new pint provided to him by the now very busy barmaid. There was a loaded pause, one that was not lost on the Witcher. “If you got the coin, you know how this works,” he said, arranging his lines of cards but looking not the slightest bit pleased with the spread.  He looked back and forth from Gajeel’s side to his own, then eased back a bit.  “Fucker,” he hissed.

Gajeel chuckled, leveling a satisfied stare at his rival.  “I could either clear out yer pockets for that, or ya could show me whatever it is that you’re avoiding mentionin’ from the shop,” a wry smirk, and the glare from his companion confirmed that there was definitely something worthwhile.  

The blacksmith grumbled into his beer as he took another swig.  His disgruntled attitude melted away quickly and pride flickered in his eyes.  Quickly, a toothy grin spread on his face.  “Got somethin’ that might suit you, finished it months back and ain’t had a single person who can afford it or was even worth selling it to.  Come by in the morning and I’ll show you; that is if I don’t roast you before the night’s up.”

The Witcher chuckled into his drink.  “Why don’t ya try.”

“OI!” Cana’s immediate shout across the tavern had both of their hands up in appeasement, muttering unheard apologies, while keeping their gazes on each other.  The challenge still very much hung between them, but they dropped it for now.  They could have at it with each other another time.

“Me kickin’ your ass aside,” a mocking grunt answered him, “There any runnin’ specials on that armor?”

“Aside from what I’m already givin’ you for winning?  God damn Gajeel, Witchin’s made you greedy,” Natsu replied.  Gajeel merely shrugged, but remained quiet, waiting for an answer.  He eventually sighed in defeat, looking upwards. “Nothing special.  The drowners are acting up where my material supplier usually docks, I figure the residents have started dumping dead livestock there and it’s making it harder for him to make my deliveries.  Clear it out, and make sure it stays cleared, and I’ll knock off another hundred crowns.”  He didn’t need to tell Gajeel that his particular supplier couldn’t possibly dock in Novigrad’s port.  Either because whomever this supplier was, they were nonhuman, or because what he delivered was just too risky to be caught with.

Gajeel fought off the urge to bark back  _ two hundred _ , reeling himself back in seeing as he already thrashed the blacksmith in gwent.  “Where’s his spot?” he asked simply.

After a brief moment, Natsu grinned devilishly, “There’s a small dock, on the northeast point of Farcorners.”

Gajeel stared at him quietly for several seconds to see if the man was kidding, but he was only met with an expectant, amused, and unbothered smile.  He didn’t know how Natsu got the idea that Gajeel would be tempted to get back to the see the sorceress, maybe because somehow the blacksmith has a connection with his own and understood the intrigue.  Gajeel wanted badly to ask more about his own connection, but that would open the door for Natsu to ask him about Levy, and that was a topic he was trying like hell to keep from landing back up on.  After a few more beats of silence, “Done,” he answered, knocking back the rest of his drink.

“Not now, I hope.  Be a waste of a good armor if you go and get yourself killed for trying to fight drunk _. _ ” 

“Wouldn’t ya love that, Salamander,” he retorted.  Gajeel bore his teeth slightly, wanting so badly to hit him square in the chest with an Aard, but he restrained himself.  He couldn’t afford to piss off Cana again and owe her for a hole in the wall… again.  But there was always such a thrill in going against the blacksmith and the alcohol never helped.  They’d known each other for decades, and drank and fought for each one of them.  Friends, rivals, he’d never been able to pin one of them but he knew that he got endless amusement from riling up and antagonizing him.  Only because of what he knew crawled beneath that deceptively human skin and that he couldn’t actually unleash it to annihilate him.  But tonight he knew better, and he needed a place to sleep by the grace of the tavern’s owner.

That, there-not-there smoke wisped form the corner of Natsu’s mouth at the name, but he let it go, changing the subject.  The previous competitive aggression flickered off his face in a heartbeat and instead he looked at Gajeel like he was actually a friend.  “So, you gonna tell me what you’ve been up to aside from romancing the Lodge?” he asked with a toothy grin, and though Gajeel rolled his eyes, he happily transitioned into stories about recent contracts, rare beasts he’d encountered, and pointedly avoided any mention of the blue-haired sorceress.  They spoke late into the night before both finally called it and hobbled off, drunkenly, to their respective places to sleep.

For being on his best behavior, Cana had agreed to let him rent out one of the rooms for the night; and one of the best ones at that.  The Rosemary’s rooms were modest compared to many others, but to him he may as well have been in a manor compared to now he was used to sleeping.  On the hard ground, under a tree, hoping it didn’t rain or something didn’t creep up on them in the night.  Here he had a bed, a warm hearth, and what made this room the best: his own tub.  

Steam billowed off the hot pool, and he had already leaned his swords against the bed and laid out his soon to be old armor on a chaise.  His head swimming in alcohol and a steady buzz already forming in his ears, the Witcher eased himself into his first bath in weeks that wasn’t a cold river.  As he immersed himself in that heat, so did he immerse himself in his thoughts.

As much as he tried to tell himself he was done with his contract, that it was time to move onto the next one, he couldn’t shake her from his thoughts.  She had latched on, settling herself in such a way that he swore he felt a tug in his heart to seek her out.  His mind locked down and gobbled up every detail of her, unwilling to lose a single shred.  Gajeel told himself it was simple infatuation.  He was a man’s man, and as Lily and his other acquaintances liked to tell him at times, he was a simple one.  Not simple as an insult, necessarily, but he knew what he liked, and typically if he wanted it, he went after it.  Gajeel had no reservations admiring the beauties of the flesh, and as a Witcher his basest desires were some of the only emotional inclinations that were left after the mutations had taken their holds on him.  

But this, this felt different from infatuation or lust, as little as he was able to distinguish between emotional nuances.  And learning of the strange connections between Radovid’s movements, the activities here in this very city, and knowing she was just outside the walls of Novigrad where her hunter was currently docked, had his head spinning.  He’d taken her exactly where she wanted to go, and yet he had taken her to such a dangerous place.  Radovid had no need to commune with the Nilfgaardians to hunt down the sorceresses.  He was well within his means to do it himself without stooping to cavorting with the enemy, so what was different now?  Why would both sides work together to gain access to the five remaining sorceresses of the Lodge?

Gajeel groaned, dragging a wet hand through his now unbound hair.  He leaned his head back against the smooth wooden rim of the tub, then sunk in, submerging himself completely for several moments.  In the silent, immersive heat, his drunken mind wandered down simpler paths.  He thought again of that night after the Fiend, sitting in front of her fireplace as she tended to his wounds, touched his skin.  A burning in his chest forced him back up to the surface, and with both hands he wiped his face.  

The Witcher groaned again into his hands as that memory took on a mind of its own.  He thought now of how much he would have wanted her to touch more of him.  He could feel her eyes on him, hear her breath hitch and hear the change in her heartbeat when he took off his armor and tunic.  Gajeel knew she was looking at him, at the bare skin, and now more than before, he savored that.  He imagined her trailing her fingers along each scar, featherlight touches sending chills through him, asking him how he got each one.  A wayward spear or five, a gryphon’s claws, a werewolf’s teeth, an endrega’s acid.  She would outline each one with her fingers as he told her, moving to the next, wondering if she should kiss them...

_ I wonder if she has any. _

The sudden thought rocked him back to the present before he could finish imagining doing the same to her and he nearly choked, mouth completely dry. “ _ Fuck, _ ” he hissed.  The Witcher shook his head, scattering water from his black hair.  “Fucking dog,” he scolded himself.  “Fucking beer.”  With everything she had to face now, she was of course not thinking of him.  He was just the Witcher who’d happened to find her twice, and each time he served her a purpose and that was the end of it.  This was the end of it.  She hadn’t a thought to spare for him and he would do best to stop sparing them for her.

What was more, he didn’t know her at all, just who she was and some of what she could do.  He knew she was a skilled sorceress, he knew she was kind, he knew she was plucky and smart, and he knew she was beautiful.  Only a handful of things, and all very basic.  There was so much more that made up a person and he only had a handful of details.  She had even less of him: he was a Witcher, and good at killing.  That was it. 

Gajeel growled deep in his throat and threw his gaze up to the roof.   _ Stick with the brothel girls, that’s so much simpler.  I don’t have time for this bullshit. _  He had a job to do tomorrow, and then he would take himself, and his new armor, out of this shithole city.

After cleaning himself off, he rose from the now lukewarm water, illuminated by the candles about the room.  He grabbed a towel off the chair nearby and absentmindedly used it to dry his hair, hardly bothering with the rest of his crafted body.

He padded, dripping, over to the nearest window and didn’t give half a shit who saw him as he gazed out on the dimly lit city.  From the top floor, he had enough of a view to see several blocks, and though he knew he could not see all the way to Hierarch Square, he could see the orange aura, and the sparkling columns of smoke rising from whomever they’d caught that night.  Someone drunk and careless, having run into the wrong sort of people.  His gut twisted uncontrollably as every wet muscle tensed for a few seconds, knowing that in every realm of possibility, it could have been her.  As he turned to fall into bed, he refused to acknowledge even a kernel of that possibility.

Gajeel fell into sleep almost immediately after his head hit the pillow, and that entire night every one of his dreams was consumed with her, and everything he’d started to think of that his conscious mind wouldn’t fully allow.

* * *

_ ‘You two continue as you have, together.’ _

_ ‘We will.’ _

_ The words twisted, the first voice becoming it’s own, and her voice, the two words, becoming two separate threads. Their ends wove into each other, forming a knot, and she could feel a tug around her heart, staring at the tie.  Beyond it, in the dark, she saw the silhouette standing there, back to her.  The twin hilts peeked over his shoulder, and she didn’t need to see his face to know who it was.   _

_ Weakly, she reached out into the dark and wrapped her fingers around the knot, pulling lightly.  The silhouette of the man she knew faltered slightly, turning so slowly to look over his shoulder at her… or through her.  There was no recognition in his face, only surprise and a searching gaze. _

_ She knew they were not alone.  She could feel the other presence, but even as she kept her grip on that tie, the thicker thread of the three lead off into pure black.  Nothing, but something attached.  She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out, pure silence surrounding her until…  _

_ Until those two statements repeated themselves one more time, and she felt the tug once more in her chest. _

* * *

The sun had barely started to light up the horizon when Gajeel stalked along the shore, looking for the dock Natsu had mentioned.  His body churned through alcohol faster than a normal man’s, but he still felt the effects of the  _ many _ beers he downed that very night.  Still, his senses were more acute than a human’s, keenly listening for the signature gargle and choke of any drowners.

It took until he got closer to where Natsu had told him the dock would be for him to start to hear the sound.  Along with wet crunches, the sound of something tearing, and quick squabbles between multiple beasts.   _ A dumped carcass, or they got a hold of someone else, _ he thought.  The Witcher walked quietly, slowly, his yellow eyes nearly flaring in the low light as he focused ahead.  

Everything in him stilled, every thought left his head except for what he came up upon now.  Gajeel reached behind him, grabbing the hilt of his silver blade.  With a soft hiss, he pulled it from its sheath, the pink dawnlight sparkling on it’s brilliant edges.

All the sounds along the shore stopped instantly, and a wicked grin spread onto his face.  They knew he was there, but no Gajeel did not pause, he held no reserve.  In many ways, he wanted them to know.  Drowners were simple.  They would not flee, they would not strategize.  They picked up on signs of new prey, and swarmed.  It was only a matter of drawing them all to him.  Something that his heart leapt at, that surged blood through his veins and sharpened every one of his senses.  He could smell them, hear every sound creeping towards him, and could feel the vibrations in the sand at his feet.

Gajeel spun his blade once, stalking forward enough to see their slick, blue and red bodies around the bend.  Each one of them already faced him, brandishing claws and gnashing bloody teeth. He could see why people thought they were born of drowned men, having the same shape as a human and looking as though they crept out of some fairytale.  It was some feeble attempt at coming up with reasoning for the monstrous bodies produced by the cataclysm so long ago.  

There were only four total, trotting towards him with heavy, wet slaps on the sand.  He laughed under his breath, feeling one of the other few, base emotions that Witchers could still manage: predation.  Gajeel was a perfect hunter as he allowed them to approach, allowed them to take the first swing that he spun around on the balls of his feet.  He spun a full rotation, slicing his blade straight through the back of the first monster with little resistance.  Gajeel stomped his foot down to stop the turn and with a spray of sand quickly changed direction to swing back in the opposite direction, sinking his silver sword into the face of a second drowner.  

Too quick, a third met his swing with a slash of rot-covered claws, sharp enough to pierce into his armor.  Gajeel bit out a growl of pain, dropping his wounded arm but swinging a heavy fist over his shoulder with his other hand.  It was enough to knock back the monster, but Gajeel had to jump backwards to avoid the teeth of the fourth, just as the third hauled itself up.  He swung to hurl blood off his blade and regained his footing and his stance, beckoning them both to come for him.  His silver blade was gripped in his right hand, and his left hand was poised up in front of him.

Both remaining drowners crept towards him, sounding like they were choking on their own saliva.  One barked out a snarl and lurched forward, just as Gajeel drew a single sign in the air and a wave of fire flew outwards to met them.  Both shrieked in complete agony, stumbling backwards while pawing at their faces.  They could not see the Witcher charge at them, twisting to the side enough to swing out a stroke with that blade so wide that it tore through both of them.

The two bodies dropped, twitching, into the sand with a wet thud, and Gajeel turned his gaze to the not-so-distant homes that surely must have been roused from sleep by this.  The homes, with their small pig pens and goat yards, must have been the ones disposing here.  The Witcher looked to the bodies, leeching black blood into the sand freely, and grabbed the nearest body.  He dragged it through the sand as much as he could before the ground beneath it ran clean again, and grabbed another to do the same.  He did this with each one of the bodies, and by the time he finished, Gajeel climbed up the bank several paces to observe the scene behind him.

Smeared messily, but still legibly into the sand with the bodies, was a simple message: ‘we eat.’

_ Ought to be enough to make them second guess it, _ Gajeel thought with a grin to himself.  Gruesome? Perhaps, but it was a clear enough message and he was not about to start preaching himself to the people that lived here.  He turned abruptly, ready to collect on his reward from his friend’s forge.  

The Witcher found himself pausing, however, as he knew he would.  She was here.  This was where her friend lived, and where she was staying.  Hopefully concealed and safe from the Witch Hunters.  Gajeel rallied all his willpower to not go in her direction.  He knew he would be tempted to do so, and he knew it was useless to try.  It would be an affront, and it was none of his business to seek her out again.  What would he even say, or offer to her?  Some half-baked concern or desire to help?  He was a monster hunter for hire, not a body guard and certainly not guard to the Lodge.

Gajeel huffed out a breath, rolling his shoulders and trying to focus on the new armor he was about to attain.  Hopefully more comfortable than this ensemble he’d looted off a dead bandit.   _ Leave it.  Leave it alone and just move the fuck on, damnit, _ he scolded himself, his nerves still alive with the fire his dreams had ignited them with.  He’d awoken in a very cold sweat that morning, remembering every detail his mind had decided to conjure up.  He had been so entrenched in dreams so brazen that even his conscience must have caught up to how out of place it was and it jerked him awake so violently he felt as though dragged by his chest, heaving and sweating.  He swore to himself in that moment that he was already too deep.  Gajeel told himself to just let kingly plots take their own course.  Witchers were not political figures, they were not kingslayers(despite public opinion), and the war between two territories and their conspiracies had no place for him.  He knew this.  One any day he knew this.

And with that, he resolutely made his way back the way he had come, back through the southern gate to seek out his friend and cash in.  Gajeel focused on the intrigue of whatever awaited him in that shop.  As much as he clashed with Natsu, the man was a damn good blacksmith and could create finer wares than any he had encountered thus far.  Granted, the blacksmith had an edge, being what he was--or wasn’t, to the rest of the world--and if he said he had something good that he would not sell to just anyone, then it had to be extraordinary.  That was enough for him to fixate on, a small part of him growing eager at the prospect and what he was about to attain.

The streets were quiet, save for the march of guards and grumbles of the Witch Hunters, maybe a few sickened drunks, at this time of the morning.  He savored the quiet and the uncrowded streets as he made his way towards Natsu’s forge.  On the way, he could not help but pass through Hierarch Square, and could not help but stare at the burned shells of former beings on the pyres.  A halfling, and the body of what had clearly once been a male judging by the broad shoulders.  A tension he hadn’t known was there released from his shoulders, and with a small huff he continued onwards through the streets.

The sign for Natsu’s forge was only just starting to be lit by the morning light, creaking every so softly on its hinges in a gentle morning breeze.  Outside the city the air was fresh but here, near this forge, it smelled of smoke and the city’s own unique aroma of filth.  The Witcher squared himself in front of the door and a wicked grin spread on his face as he pounded his fist,  _ loudly _ , on the door four times.  With his sensitive hearing, he heard a jump and the clatter of several dishes, knicknacks, etcetera.  A harsh swear, shuffling, and the spitting of his name.  Among other profanities and titles.  

It took several moments for the door to rip open, and Gajeel hardly flinched as the surly blacksmith lurched out of the doorway and grabbed him by the front of his armor.  He could almost feel the heat spreading from where the grip was.

“Witcher…” he snarled, dark eyes glaring up at the morning’s offender, “do you have  _ any _ clue what time it is?”

“I’m here to collect,” Gajeel replied simply.  “Your dock is clear.”

Slowly, with a gaze oozing hatred, he looked to the drowner blood flecked on his armor.  So it was.  “When I said… to come by in the ‘morning,’” he began, but the Witcher interrupted him.

“It’s mornin.’  Not my fault ya can’t bounce back the morning after like I can,” he said with a shrug, still grinning down at the furious man, eyes bloodshot from too much beer and not enough sleep.  “I did what ya asked and I got money in my pockets, ya gonna show me this armor or not.”

Another tense moment, and the blacksmith loosed his tense breath, letting go of the armor.  He turned from Gajeel waving over his shoulder, “Come in already.  Don’t touch anything,” he growled, earning a ‘yeah yeah’ from the man who had heard this many times before.  Natsu led Gajeel through the chaotic, cluttered space to the back of the shop where he had several large mannequins to display different armor sets.  

Many of them looked like what Gajeel had already seen before from him, nothing particularly unusual but certainly his handiwork.  But then his eyes fell upon not one of the mannequins, but a neatly folded stack of armor and pants, with the boots and gauntlets laid next to it on the counter.  As though Natsu had taken the time to set them out the night before.  His heart tripped a beat at the sight of it, the metal of blackest black all so intricately crafted and layered that it was no wonder he wouldn’t sell it to anyone else.  “Ain’t this just the sweetest thing.  Ya made it just for me,” the Witcher crooned, and Natsu immediately snorted.

“Oh shove it,  _ Black Steel, _ ” he retorted, turning to stand by the armor and face his friend, resting his hand on the dark armor.  “Best materials supplied straight from Toissant.  Fire resistant, enhanced against slashing or tearing,” he paused and pointedly moved his gaze to the drying blood on Gajeel’s right arm, around the torn sleeve, “and sturdy enough to soften a hammer’s blow.  It’s not indestructible, even though I know that’s all you just heard, but damn if it’s not some of my finest work.  I’d normally charge over three thousand for the whole set, but for you…” he paused, thinking, “Nine hundred.”

Gajeel pondered the price for several quiet moments, unable to tear his gaze from the set.  Damn if it wasn’t the nicest thing he’d wear in a long time, and the price was a steal.  “Got one more thing to offer ya,” he started, reaching for a pouch at his hip that did not contain his coin.  Protest started to rise in the rose-haired male, but Gajeel cut him off waving his free hand.  “Cool it, I ain’t asking for more money off, just gonna sweeten the deal for ya.  Keep up our good faith.”

Natsu’s brows rose, waking up just a little more as he seemed to pick up on what Gajeel was offering.  “What did you bring?  From what?” he asked, eagerly, as the Witcher pulled out a bundled scrap of cloth that had been balled up to hold something within.  He handed it over to the blacksmith, who opened it up to reveal what looked like a long, moss-stained shard of wood.

“Spriggan contract a few weeks ago.  The smoke from that oughta knock ya on yer ass,” he explained with a small smirk as his friend sniffed at the piece.  Gajeel told himself that this was largely why the blacksmith continued to put up with him, aside from the steady flow of coin for his best wares, because it certainly wasn’t his shining personality or wicked left hook.

Natsu may have been trapped in a human body, but there were ways he could just touch, brush against what he used to be.  Nothing that would break the curse, but more of a high that fisstech could barely touch.  Burning any sort of enchanted, otherworldly wood produced smoke that to anyone else was nothing different, but to Natsu, it allowed him to hallucinate memories that he didn’t have access to anymore.  Memories that had been locked away with the curse to keep him from reaching for any sort knowledge that might help him out of that body.  Natsu had discovered it by accident nearly two decades ago, and it was how he had remembered he was even cursed to begin with.  

He’d already known Gajeel at that point--who for the life of him couldn’t figure out why his medallion hummed around Natsu--and struck a deal with him to bring the materials, in exchange for cheaper prices off the best, mastercrafted armor he’d ever get his hands on.  Spriggan wood gave him almost a full three minutes, leshen wood just a hair less.  And the wood of any trees that had been enchanted or possessed gave him only about a minute.  He could never know what he would get, what memory, and how valuable or useless it would be, but if he wasn’t reliving a life far better than that stuck as a simple human, he was searching for anything he might have known about breaking curses.  Or the words used to deliver this curse to begin with.

Natsu nodded deeply, genuinely, to the Witcher.  “Consider yourself forgiven for wakin’ me up at the ass crack of dawn,” he grinned, flashing too-white teeth.  He wrapped the wood piece back up in the cloth and stuffed them into the pocket of his trousers.  “You remember where the back room is, go get yourself in it and I’ll make sure it fits.  You look like you been putting on weight so I’ll have to double check.”

Gajeel clicked his tongue, dropped his coin purse on the counter, and scooped up all of the items to head off into the back.  As he removed his old armor behind the closed door, he inspected the once-deep gouges the drowner had given him, already healing.  The scar forming at the edges of the tears was bright pink, fresh, and a new story to add to the spread across his skin.  He halted himself from thinking again about scars, and instead focused on getting himself into the new armor.  Not surprisingly, it fit almost perfectly and was leaps and bounds more comfortable than the older set.  

He looked down at himself, moving in different ways to test the fit, admiring the harsh points, angles, and scale-like plates that rose up from his shoulders and spread across his chest.   _ Typical, _ he thought, amused.  The blacksmith certainly had his trademark, and the more he remembered about himself the more his armor style evolved.  For the better.  

Gajeel looked at himself in the small tabletop mirror and grinned in approval.  He’d be a force to be reckoned with in these.  The Witcher tied up his black main into a ponytail once again with a long strip of leather, and rolled his shoulders after to assure himself of the fit.  

More than pleased with the weight and the feel of the armor, he gathered up the old armor and proceeded out of the room.  He had already started to speak when he just barely heard a door open at the front of the shop, “Ya want these old ones for inspiration, right?” he taunted, looking up from his arms as he rounded the corner and saw Natsu holding the door open.  In the doorway were two hooded figures, one slender male with orange hair, the other a noticeably shorter female, dull brown locks peeking out of the hood.

Both looked to him quickly, and he could see their eyes widen in the shadow of their hoods, as Gajeel’s mouth went dry.


End file.
